A/N: Thanks for all your wonderful reviews and encouragement. They make my day. The following chapter is M-rated. I had originally used Harry's Diary for dates for this fic (like I usually do) but episode 2.08 references a surprise birthday party for Harry, which would make the dates in Harry's Diary off by several months and we couldn't have that now, could we? So, anyway, enjoy and please review. Cheers, S.C.


Saturday, 24th May 2003 – Ruth's Place

He's enjoyed himself much more this evening than he dare admit, even to himself, and as they continue walking silently, side by side while the sun sets and the colours fade around them, he can't help but acknowledge that he's not ready for this evening to end and he would very much like for her to ask him in. No sooner has he realised this and started processing the implications, when she turns sharply to her left, glancing over her shoulder at him when he stops short, saying, "This is it."

"Right," he says, taking a few steps after her down the short path to her door, lingering far enough back so as not to seem too eager. This day, this evening has been full of surprises, yet he cannot, must not forget that Ruth is his analyst, that he is her boss, that their meal was not a date, was barely even a meal between friends – though, after two hours of pleasant, stimulating conversation, it feels like that now – and that, whatever happens next, he must make sure that they will be able to work together come morning.

She gets the door open but hesitates for a moment before turning to face him, one hand resting on the door-handle. "Would you like to come in, Harry?"

She's looking right at him, her meaning crystal clear, and it takes him a moment to recover from his surprise before he can reply. "I'd love to, Ruth." He says her name seductively, barely able to contain his desire, his heart hammering in his chest as he moves closer, looming over her in the gathering dusk, his right hand reaching for her left one and giving it a gentle squeeze.

She smiles fleetingly and turns, stepping through her front door as he follows on her heels, releasing her hand to close and lock it behind him before he turns to find her hanging up her coat, then reaching down to remove her boots, barely sparing him a glance. For a moment, he wonders if he misread her look or if she's changed her mind already, but quickly recovers his equilibrium, resolving to give her an out at the first opportunity before things progress much further. He wants her tonight and he knows that he's perfectly capable of taking her to bed and walking onto the Grid in the morning as if nothing happened. He's done this several times before over the years and it's never been a problem for him. He's not sure that Ruth has, however, and he doesn't want to jeopardise their working relationship. She's a pawn on his chessboard that's just turned into a queen and he'll be damned if he'll lose her to a quick, stolen moment of pleasure.

He hangs up his coat and turns to face her once more, finding her watching him, her expression hard to read in the gloom. He thinks about searching for the light-switch but quickly dismisses the notion, remembering the glass-panes in the front door, the spook in him knowing the danger of outlining their silhouettes to those potentially lurking outside in the shadows, the lover in him acknowledging it's easier to play the seduction game in the dark.

He takes a step closer, and another, until he's standing right before her, struck suddenly by the difference in their heights now she's taken her boots off. She's small and delicate compared to his bulk, but he knows the measure of her now, the strength and courage that she's proving even now by not shying away from him, her head tilted up to look at him, a little hum of pleasure escaping her as he lifts his palm to cup her cheek, thumb coasting slowly over her cheekbone before he leans in to kiss her.

It's soft and sweet, gentle and unhurried, a kiss to say hello by, a kiss to gently greet.

He draws back and waits, his thumb still caressing her cheek, fingertips stroking her hairline, nose beside hers, his breath coasting over her lips, breathing her in, blood heating at the tantalising possibilities spreading out before them.

He doesn't have to wait long, her hands reaching up to grasp his lapels and draw him closer, her lips pressing against his own again, more firmly this time, with purpose, a kiss to say I like you and I want more.

He lifts his other hand to her waist, drawing her closer, his right hand slipping round her face to thread into her hair, cupping the back of her head as the heat rises between them, their breaths harsher in the stillness of the house, his want growing with every passing moment.

She tastes of mint and wine, her lips soft and pliable against his, the enthusiasm with which she's kissing him almost making him tremble, the thought of the passion he might unleash in her, if given half a chance, inflaming his desire. Is there no end to the surprises with this woman?

He pulls out of the kiss to catch his breath and give her the opportunity to reconsider, leaning back far enough to see her eyes clearly, drawing his palm back to her cheek, his thumb running along her jaw this time and over her lower lip. He wants her. Desperately. But he must give her time to consider. The gentleman in him demands it of him, as does the spy, the Section Head who worries about the impact this'll have on his team. "Toilet?" he asks softly, shattering the stillness.

She clears her throat and steps back, causing his hand to fall away from her face. "Down the hall, first door on the left."


She can't help but think that he did that on purpose, gave her time to think about this, make sure she really wants it. And just the fact that he's done that, given her an out, makes her want to do this even more because it turns out that Harry's rather a decent man in addition to being a bastard.

She knows she's a little drunk – well, not drunk really, more like very tipsy – and that in the light of day and under normal circumstances she'd never have the guts to be so bold, but dammit she wants this man and she means to have him, just this once, and to hell with the consequences. He'll not be her first one-night-stand, but she rather thinks he might be her best if she can just hold onto the lust and forget, for the next hour or two, that he's her boss with the power to make or break her.

It's been a long day, at times utterly terrifying, and she desperately wants, she needs, some comfort tonight, some passion and lust, a damn good orgasm or two, and a good night's sleep to recover. That's all. Tomorrow will take care of itself. What's that saying again? There are only two days that nothing can be done – yesterday and tomorrow. So today is the right day to love, believe, do, fuck... Who said that? She thinks it might have been the Dalai Lama though, if it was, she doubts he added fuck to the list.

She puts the cat food back in the cupboard and washes her hands at the kitchen sink, drying them on the towel as she turns to watch Fidget wolf down his food with more speed than usual, probably feeling uncomfortable with Harry in their home. Poor Fidget, she thinks, then amends the thought, adding, but lucky Ruth!

She smiles, shaking herself and quickly hanging up the towel before going upstairs to glance around, make sure her room is fairly presentable. She doesn't have time to change the sheets, but she hopes he will not notice, nor does she have time to do something about the piles of books and general lack of order. Quickly, she sweeps the clothes littering her bed into her arms and shoves them in the wardrobe, closing the door on them, only to find she needs to open it again to hide away her teddy-bear and his friends. She straightens out the covers and picks up a stray pair of dirty knickers hiding under the bed, taking them through to the laundry basket in the bathroom.

"Ruth?"

"Upstairs," she calls, quickly switching off the light as she steps back onto the landing, giving her eyes a fighting chance to adjust to the gloom again, knowing she needs the lights off to carry through with this despite the Dutch courage. She needs him to start kissing her again soon. Her mind goes blissfully blank when he does that and she can stop worrying about the consequences.

The stairs creak as he climbs them far more than when she does, and for a moment, she experiences a flash of doubt and trepidation, but then she can see his face, his shoulders and chest as he keeps climbing towards her, his eyes on hers until he's there, standing before her, his gaze intense even in the darkness – hungry, wanting.

"May I?" he asks softly, his lips hovering near her own.

"Please," she whispers back.

One kiss is all it takes to lose herself in him, in the wonder of his hands on her body, the delight of the passion surging between them, the need, the aching need pulling at her insides. She guides him to her bedroom, his lips fused to her own even as she walks backwards, pulling him with her as his hands make quick work of his jacket buttons and he shrugs it off his shoulders, draping it over the foot-board of her bed before his hands return to her, drawing her against him.

He trails kisses along her jaw, sucks on the skin of her neck, his hands encasing her ribs, moving higher, his teeth clasping her earlobe, biting down then sucking it into his mouth. "I want you," he whispers, making her whimper.

"I... too." Her brain's speech centre seems to have short-circuited and certainly her lips and tongue are unable to follow its directions. They're far more intent on tasting him, her hands on exploring his skin. He seems so strong and broad below his waistcoat and shirt, his arse deliciously firm under his trousers.

He growls in her ear, sending a thrill dancing down her spine, and murmurs, "Too many clothes," as he pushes her cardigan off her shoulders, then makes short work of the buttons on her blouse to pull that off too, his lips never leaving her skin, trailing kisses down to the hollow of her throat, palms now gliding over her bare shoulders and round to cup her breasts over her spaghetti-top and bra. "How many layers?" he asks, perhaps rhetorically. Her mind is certainly unable to muster an answer.

All the air in her lungs escapes in a rush when his hands slip under her top, fingertips feathering across her stomach, making her knees tremble. He moves with purpose and skill, fingers flicking open buttons and clasps so fast, she's not quite sure how it happens but she's suddenly almost naked.

She takes a step back to catch her breath, sitting down on the edge of her bed when she feels it behind her, her hands sliding down him to the bottom of his waistcoat where, with trembling hands, she begins to unfasten the buttons. "You're overdressed, Harry," she says, somehow recovering her ability to speak now that he's not so intent on devouring her.

He chuckles and begins to help her unbutton, starting at the top of his shirt as she works her way up from the bottom. He must have removed his tie and cuff-links in the loo because his waistcoat and shirt come off without much effort, followed by his vest and trousers, leaving him standing in his underwear and socks like her.

"Now we're even," he murmurs, slowly leaning over her, forcing her to lie back and shift up the bed so that there's room for both of them. "Let's get under the covers," he suggests, tugging the corner of the duvet towards her, and after a little more manoeuvring on both their parts, they're lying side by side below them. She shivers at the change in temperature, but is glad for the warmth of the duvet. It's May and she refuses to use the heating so late in the spring, even if her home is still chilly at night sometimes.

He's watching her, gaze intense and probing, and she can't help feeling a little self-conscious all of a sudden, the haze of lust having dissipated somewhat. "Are you sure about this, Ruth?" he asks softly, covering her hand with his under the duvet. "I don't want..." he pauses, searching for words.

"Don't worry, Harry," she says quickly. "I won't demand anything of you come morning."

He searches her gaze in the gloom, perhaps looking for signs that she is lying. She's not. She knows Harry cannot offer her anything more; she doesn't want anything more from him if she's honest. He's a good boss – most of the time – and she hopes, an excellent lover, but he's not relationship material in her mind. She can't imagine herself dating Harry. Well, she can imagine it – fantasize about it, more like – but she doesn't see how it would work. For one thing, he's her boss. For another, almost two decades her senior. And then there's the fact that she cannot see how she could ever know him well. She's just a chess piece on his chessboard. She always will be.

"I enjoyed dinner, our conversation," she confesses. "I hadn't expected... this." She moves her hand between them. "But..." She bites her lip. How does she explain what's happened tonight when she doesn't understand it herself?

He lifts himself onto his right forearm, shifting his weight towards her. "You're a beautiful woman, Ruth," he murmurs huskily, "and I want to make love to you."

She smiles, feeling herself blush under his gaze, the note of sincerity she hears in his voice. It isn't often that people call her beautiful, but she has a feeling he means it. She reaches up to trace a finger over a silver line running down the outside of his shoulder, an old scar that's gleaming in the muted light filtering in through the window. She's not drawn the curtains and it's never really dark in a city like London.

"Still making up for being a bastard?" she asks daringly, her tone of voice teasing.

His teeth gleam as he smiles. "Is it working?" His leg brushes up against hers, left hand reaching for her waist, running up her side, his thumb reaching round to caress the underside of her breast and making her whimper.

"I'll let you know after," she manages to say, reaching up to pull his head down to kiss him.


No strings attached – just the way he likes it.

He leans into the kiss, lips parting hungrily as his tongue invades her mouth, his hands drawing her closer, the passion of her response to him immensely pleasing. She's wrapped her right leg around his hip, nails scraping across his back and buttocks, setting his nerves on fire as he runs his left palm down her side, squeezing her bum against him, thrusting his pelvis towards her and moaning at the friction. He needs to strip them both naked and soon.

His hand glides down further, over her thigh to her calf and foot, determined to begin the process by peeling back her socks, then grasping her foot as his lips trail down her neck, fingertips kneading the arch while he sucks and licks her fragrant skin, her whimpers of pleasure letting him know she likes it.

He's surprised to find her calves are not smooth when he glides his hand up her leg again, suggesting she hasn't shaved her legs in several days, but he finds that he rather likes it. She certainly hasn't planned on entertaining company tonight and it hints at a confidence that he finds very pleasing. He knows a lot of women would have let their insecurities get the better of them and not invited him in for sex if they'd not been perfectly manicured with fresh sheets on the bed and their house immaculately tidy. It's like she's saying, "I am who I am – take me or leave me," and he admires that.

She moans, her leg tightening around his hip, drawing him closer as his fingers find her inner thigh and brush the edges of her underwear, pushing him ever nearer to the edge. His younger self would have stripped them in an instant, at such a response, and buried himself inside her, but he doesn't want this to be over so quickly. He rather likes drawing it out these days. God knows, such encounters are few and far between lately.

Delicately, he draws his fingers over her heat, her whimper of excitement making him smile against her neck and trail kisses lower, over her collar bone and the charm necklace nestled there, all the way down to her breasts, creating enough space between their bodies so his hand can move freely, stroking her over her damp knickers, vibrating the heel of his hand against her clit and making her cry out.

Her hands reach for his head, drawing him closer to her chest, her breathless, "Harry," filling him with pride and pleasure. His fingers find the edge of her briefs and slip under just as his mouth closes around one nipple, the heat of her, the slickness making him moan with want and he can hold back no more. He pushes one, two, three fingers into her as he sucks rhythmically on her nipple, feeling her body tense then begin to move, her hands sliding through his hair, hips undulating in a primal rhythm, her breath escaping in pants and moans of ever increasing intensity, taking her pleasure from him without hesitation and leaving him transfixed and aching to join her.

She whimpers, her hips jerking, searching for release, and she's so magnificent that he almost loses it. He turns his hand, squeezing in another finger, his thumb over her pubic bone, the base of it connecting with her clit as he moves it back and forth a few times, giving her the friction she's searching for, and she comes, shuddering in his arms, a guttural, primal sound escaping her lips, her back arching, head tilting back as he releases her breast to watch, moved by the sight of her flying apart in pleasure. He doesn't know if he'll be able to forget this, if, back on the Grid, he'll not be assaulted by this image every time he looks at her. For now though, all he cares about is joining her, moving inside her, lifting her to new heights and rising with her, feeling sure somehow that, together, they can reach new, uncharted territory of lust and passion and ecstasy.

He pulls his fingers out and sits up, causing her to whimper and roll onto her side, the duvet falling to just across her buttocks, and though he's tempted to throw caution to the wind and take her forthwith, he knows that no strings attached means condom. Quickly, he reaches into the pocket of his jacket that he'd positioned on the foot-board of the bed for easy access earlier and feels around for the square packet, pulling it out and quickly divesting himself of his socks and underwear before Ruth has even stirred. Then he slips back in bed and expertly slides it on before turning his attention to her, running his palm from her shoulder down her side to her breast, cupping it gently and smiling at the sigh of contentment that escapes her.

"Ruth?" he murmurs softly, shifting closer to her, his gaze raking over her body, heart still pounding with want.

"Mmmm?" she hums, her eyes blinking open.

He drops his gaze, shifting closer, his legs brushing against hers, detecting the presence of the one sock he'd failed to remove earlier and frowning before he reaches down to take off the offending item, running his hand up her leg to her bum, when he's done, and the last remaining garment left between them. He moves closer still, propping his weight on his right forearm, face near hers as he whispers, "I want you, Ruth. Desperately. May I?" He tugs on her knickers, he hopes his meaning clear, waiting for her permission to take her.

She smiles then sighs happily, lifting her hand to stroke his jaw, running her fingertips over his stubble, her palm curving round his cheek, eyes on his, warm and inviting. "Yes, please," she murmurs and kisses him, drawing him towards her, hand slipping into his hair, lips hungry, passionate, her body arching towards him. He moans and pulls her close, his hand tugging her underwear downwards, but they don't seem to want to budge, what with her lying on her side and unable to lift her hips effectively.

"Sodding pants," he growls against her lips only to have her giggle. "It's not funny, Ruth," he complains, tugging on them harder. "Lift your arse, woman."

"Maybe you should use both hands," she replies, placing a quick kiss against his lips and scooting over, not onto her back as he expects, but onto her stomach, lifting her upper body with her forearms as she turns her head to look at him, her hair flying over her shoulder. "Ready?" she asks seductively and lifts her bum off the bed, the covers falling away from her, the sight of her on all fours heart-stoppingly arousing.

He groans and pulls down her knickers to her knees, unable to resist the temptation of her gorgeous arse as he reaches for it, squeezing, fingers reaching round to coast over her slick heat, making her moan, slipping his fingers inside her again, stroking, building her up, his lips and teeth kissing, scraping her buttocks until she collapses back onto the bed and he can hold back no more.

He pushes into her, his body covering hers, their breaths harsh, each exhale releasing a deep groan of pleasure, their rhythm somehow, miraculously harmonious, building to a crescendo with an elegance and grace that he's rarely experienced before, until they each tumble over, he first with a roar of utter satisfaction, then she with a cry of ecstasy muffled by the pillow as she shudders below him and he falls to the side, spent, stated, and replete, with barely enough presence of mind to make sure the condom stays on and comes with him.

Bliss. Peace. Absolute contentment.

These are not qualities that often permeate his being and he basks in the glory of it. They're not touching, and somehow that feels wrong, so he moves his right hand, searching for hers, stroking her palm when he finds it and eliciting a hum from her that makes him smile. He covers her hand with his own and gently squeezes, feeling her hand squeeze him back. He can't see her face and he's not sure if that's because she's facing the other way or because her hair and the pillow are obscuring it, but though he'd like to meet her gaze and smile at her in joy and gratitude, quip about him not being such a bastard after all perhaps, he can't muster the energy to move just yet, so he closes his eyes again and just breathes, mind blank, heart full, body relaxed and tranquil.

He dozes – he knows not for how long – but when he wakes, feeling the chill in the air around them, he realises from the slackness of Ruth's hand that she's fallen into a deep slumber. Gently he removes his hand to deal with the condom, almost sighing in relief when it comes off, then gets up to dispose of it and use the loo, covering her with the duvet, pulling his trunks and vest back on, and leaving her bedroom.

He's retrieved his watch from his jacket pocket and now sees that it's close to eleven – definitely time he headed home to see to Scarlet and grab some sleep before Charles picks him up bright and early tomorrow morning. He pees and flushes the condom down the loo – a terrible practice for the environment, he knows, but the spook in him hates to leave DNA evidence behind at someone else's place, even one that belongs to a member of his own team. Better to be safe than sorry. Then he splashed water on his face and dries it, staring at himself in the mirror for a moment, surprised by the sated look he still sees in his own eyes. It doesn't normally last this long. Then he shakes his head at himself and steps out of the bathroom, taking a moment to allow his eyes to adjust to the darkness again on the landing before slipping back into Ruth's bedroom to retrieve his clothes.

Movement catches his eye as Ruth's cat springs from the bed onto the floor and disappears under it so fast, he could have blinked and he'd have missed it. He smiles, amused by the agile creature and pleased that he will not be leaving Ruth all alone when he goes, then frowning at the realisation that it bothers him, on some level, to be sneaking out while she's sleeping. The sex had been spectacular, but there's a tenderness lurking in the shadows of his heart that he's not felt in a very long time – so long, in fact, that he'd began to think himself no longer capable of it. He'd hoped he wasn't capable of it. Feelings like that are dangerous for a spook and they always lead to complications.

He hates complications.

He gathers his things, separating them out from Ruth's garments which he deposits over the foot-board before leaving the room, allowing his gaze to linger on her a moment though he cannot see her face, obscured as it is by her hair and the duvet. Her cat's eyes gleam at him from under the bed though, disapproving and hostile.

Alright, he thinks. I'm going. And he turns, making his way down the stairs where he finishes getting dressed, slipping his shoes back on and shrugging his coat on. At the door though, he hesitates, his conscience pricking him to be leaving without a word. He sighs, turning and trudging down the hall, peering into one room after another until he's found her kitchen, her phone, and beside it, a pen and a notepad.

"Sorry to sneak out. You looked too peaceful to wake," he scribbles. "Thanks for everything." He hesitates, reluctant to sign it lest it fall into the wrong hands, and eventually deciding he doesn't need to. Ruth's hardly going to think it's from someone else. He tares the slip of paper from the pad and places it carefully by the kettle, setting an Oxford Uni mug he finds on Ruth's mug-tree over half the sheet, obscuring most of the writing, but wanting to make sure it doesn't flutter to the floor by accident, or Ruth's hostile cat doesn't walk off with it in the night just to spite him.

Satisfied, he purposefully strides from the room and out through the front door, locking it from the outside and posting the keys through the letter box, hearing them fall to the floor behind the door with a satisfying jiggle and thud. They should be safe enough there, as should Ruth, safely locked inside her home – not that it would be that difficult for someone to break in if they had a mind to. He frowns, making a mental note to speak to her about it sometime soon. Didn't she learn anything from the seminar on personal security she received in training?

He shakes himself free of such thoughts and the niggle of worry that's wormed its way inside his heart at the thought of her in danger. Then he turns towards the restaurant they'd eaten at earlier, hoping to find a cab at the taxi rank near it.