A/N: Thanks you to followers of this fic, and especially to reviewers. This was meant to be a one shot, but it got away from me. Only one more chapter after this.
3½ weeks later:
Harry is stretched out on top of the duvet. He is fully clothed in slacks and a thick jumper, shoes still on his feet. Ruth is rested after the best night's sleep she's had since she'd been taken off the morphine. She smiles at the sight of him. Even in deep sleep he appears exhausted. He has been to every one of her physiotherapy sessions, and when she was ready to enter the pool downstairs, Harry got into the water beside her and joined her in every exercise she'd been given to do. She could not fault him in any way. To her mind it was as though he has been attempting to make up for not being by her side when she'd been shot in the lower left shoulder by a temporarily disturbed Ilya Gavrik, only moments after he'd strangled his wife. In retrospect she should not have insisted she accompany the Russian contingent to their meeting with several members of Section D. She had gone because as she saw it, an unbiased perspective was required. Towers had warned her that the senior Gavrik had something up his sleeve, and she had ignored his warnings. Had it not been for Sasha Gavrik removing his own jacket and shirt, and pressing his shirt into her wound ... well, it doesn't bear thinking about. She slides out of their bed, careful to not place any weight on her left arm, and heads to the en suite for a shower.
Ruth stands under the stream of water, letting it flow over her, enjoying its warmth. The scar from her operation has healed well, and she only has scheduled three more sessions with the physiotherapist, with only one of those being in the pool. Apart from medical staff, the house staff, and even Felix and Kim Moody, have left them alone, and she and Harry have been thankful for that. She'll be glad when they are free to go home, although she's no longer sure where home is. What is she thinking ….. home is wherever Harry is. Ever since she'd returned from Cyprus, and once she'd sorted in her head the chain of responsibility for George's death …... ever since then Harry has been her home. It's just that it had taken her a very long time for her to acknowledge this.
By the time she finishes her shower and heads back into the bedroom, Harry is stirring. Ruth sits on the edge of the bed and watches while he stretches his body, arches his back, and then opens his eyes. It is only when his eyes are focused on her that she speaks.
"Harry ..."
"Mmm?"
"I think we need to decide where we're going to live."
"Why is that?" His eyes are trained on her with an intensity which is disconcerting. In an unconscious act of self protection Ruth draws her dressing gown together at the neckline. Harry notices and smiles.
"We can't go back to London to live. I'm meant to be dead."
"Mmm. You're definitely not dead, Ruth. Just the opposite, in fact."
"Mine is a serious question."
"Mmm …... let me think about it. In the meantime, come here."
8 weeks later – Norfolk:
He hadn't wanted to leave her in the cottage on her own, but it couldn't be helped. They'd agreed that he should drive to London alone for his appointment with the Home Secretary at 9 am. He'd then visit his daughter, and then drive straight back to their rented cottage on the coast. Hopefully by the time he arrives home Ruth would still be pottering around inside the house.
Ruth doesn't mind being alone. It is he who panics whenever she is out of his sight, and Ruth understands why that is. Harry knows that he needs to give her some leeway fairly soon, or she'll rebel against his need to always be with her. It's just that he feels the need to prove to himself that he is worthy of being her husband and protector. He'd shared this with her, and she'd stared at him as if seeing him for the first time. "You've always been worthy of me, Harry. I've often felt unworthy of you," to which he'd shaken his head in disbelief.
Harry drives his car down the narrow driveway to the back of the cottage. There is no sign of Ruth anywhere. He heads inside. She is not in the kitchen or the living room or the utilities room. He calls her name while he searches for her upstairs. She is not in any of the rooms. She could have walked into the village, but she'd assured him she wouldn't leave the cottage until he arrived home. He is standing at the window of the second bedroom, looking out into the field which lies directly behind the cottage, when he sees something in the long grass …... something coloured, fluttering in the breeze. Ruth! She has a skirt that exact same colour.
Harry runs down the stairs, taking them two at a time. By the time he reaches the back door he can feel his heart beating at the back of his throat. Please let her be alright. He runs across the back yard and through the gate in the fence. By the time he is charging up the hill behind the cottage he is short of breath, and his legs ache. When he reaches her he throws himself onto the grass beside her. She is lying on her back in the long grass, wildflowers nodding all around her, her outstretched arms forming the shape of a crucifix. Her eyes are closed, and her face is relaxed in the most peaceful smile. When she hears his heavy breathing from beside her she opens her eyes and slowly turns her head his way. "Harry," she says. "You're home. I've been waiting ages."
Harry cannot speak. He is simply relieved. He rolls towards her and wraps an arm around her waist. She reaches across and kisses his mouth. "I've missed you," she says before she again lies on her back, her face turned upwards.
"What are you doing out here? I thought you were ….."
"I'm fine, Harry. I'm …... communing with the earth. Didn't you do this when you were a child? I did. I was sure I could feel the earth's heart beating beneath my back."
Harry sighs heavily before he smiles at her. His wonderful, beautiful Ruth. "What you heard was the thrum of traffic from the motorway," he says.
"Oh, Harry. Don't you believe in Gaia, the Greek Goddess of the earth? Didn't you ever lie on the ground when you were a child? Didn't you listen to it breathing all around you?"
"I was a child for only around a week or two, so no …. I can't remember ever doing that."
"Try it. Just lie still for a moment and feel the earth beneath you. If you listen carefully you can hear it sighing."
Harry does as she suggests, rolling onto his back, arms stretched beside him, listening. "All I can hear is the birds chirping," he says after a while.
"That's a start. You have to let go of the noise inside your head."
He turns towards her and lifts himself on to one elbow, leaning over her. His glorious, engaging, unique wife ….. how would he have continued living had she died when Ilya Gavrik had shot her? She looks inviting – more inviting than usual. He leans in and kisses her, and she responds with gusto, wrapping her arms around his waist, pulling him closer. He pulls out of the kiss to get his breath.
"What say we …..?" he says as his eyes roam over her body.
"You want to do it here?"
"Why not? It'll be a first for us. No-one can see us."
"Aren't you tired from your drive, from being in London?"
"Not now. I'm ….. revived ….. alive. I'd like to make love to you …... here ... now."
"Shouldn't we go inside? What if someone should see us? I'm sure there are laws against fornicating in a public place."
"We won't be ….. fornicating ….. and this is private land. The owner lives -"
"- far away."
"So you see …...?" Harry again lifts his eyebrows in a question. He will not proceed until Ruth is comfortable. He waits, watching her as her mind travels through all the possibilities should they go ahead and make love in the long grass.
Ruth pats the ground beside her. "The earth is dry," she says.
"It hasn't rained for weeks."
Harry acknowledges to himself that he is tired, but he's not so tired that he can't take advantage of the time and the place. This opportunity may not present itself again. He leans across her, resting his weight on his hands, waiting for her to respond, but she is looking off to her left. "We can't," Ruth whispers hoarsely. "Someone's coming."
Harry leans close to her, his lips next to her ear. "That will add to the thrill, Ruth. Just imagine -"
She begins shaking her head. "Not when the witnesses are children."
Harry lifts his head and turns to look in the same direction as Ruth. Walking haphazardly along the grassy verge at the bottom of the bank, just this side of their back fence are two children in the bottle green uniform of the local school – a boy of about 6 and a girl of perhaps 10. It is clear they are brother and sister. They have not lifted their heads to see the couple hiding in the long grass on the top of the rise. The small boy begins spinning around, but still manages to keep up with his sister. In less than a minute they are further along and out of sight. Harry lets out the breath he hadn't known he was holding.
"In this instance our timing was perfect, Harry," Ruth says, smiling up at him. Harry rolls away from her, the moment over. "How about we go inside and I make us a pot of tea."
Harry's reply is to roll onto his back and groan.
Harry opts to give the pot of tea a miss. He heads upstairs to have a lie down. He is noticing more and more how retirement can be more tiring than working full time. Alternatively, as he ages he may be slowing down. He is almost asleep when he feels the mattress dip a little as Ruth joins him. He looks across at her to see she is lying on top of the duvet, spreading a woollen blanket over her.
"We're a couple of geriatrics, Ruth," he murmurs.
"Speak for yourself. We've both been up since before 4.30. That makes the day far too long for me."
"There was a time not so long ago when we each began our day at 5, and often didn't leave work until 10."
"I no longer wish to do that, Harry."
"Me neither," he says before he again closes his eyes.
When Harry wakes it is almost six o'clock and he is in bed alone. He lies on his back for a moment, breathing deeply. Delicious smells are wafting up the stairs from the kitchen, so he rolls out of bed and heads to the shower.
Ruth is humming to herself as she makes the sauce for the chicken stir fry. Since she has been living in this cottage with Harry, and with no job to go to each day, she is discovering how much she enjoys simple creative activities like cooking. As much as she loves sharing the kitchen and the cooking with him, she prefers to create a meal in her own way. She's all for throwing in handfuls of this and that, trusting that the finished dish will be edible, even enjoyable, and mostly she is successful. Harry, on the other hand, insists on weighing and measuring everything. "Cooking is a science, Ruth."
"And here was I thinking it's an art form."
"Perhaps it's a craft," Harry had countered. "You'd expect a carpenter to measure the wood before he glues it together ….. wouldn't you?"
Rather than ignoring him altogether, Ruth had distracted Harry with a kiss, but he would not be put off. When he is chief cook they measure, but when Ruth is in charge, she insists that estimation will suffice.
She feels a presence in the room, and then Harry's arms slide around her waist, and she feels his lips warm on her neck. "You smell nice," she says, turning towards him and away from the cooker.
"So do you …... but the dinner smells better."
"You can pour the wine. It's almost ready."
They are sitting at the large table in the kitchen, their chicken stir fry in bowls in front of them, the rice in a larger bowl between them. Harry has poured them each a generous glass of chablis, and they have drunk to another day of married life.
"We have to talk, Harry."
Harry takes a deep breath. He has been expecting this.
