So far, this evening had not gone to plan. In fact, it had gone spectacularly off the rails somewhere along the way. From the moment he arrived Harry had felt wrong-footed and uncertain, the little box weighing heavy in his pocket. He had had been so thrown by Ruth's rather cool demeanor towards him, so surprised when she asked him to confirm his whereabouts earlier in the day, so completely flabbergasted when he told her the truth and her only response had been a rather casual good, that he found himself loath to speak, lest he break the uneasy truce that had sprung up between them. They sat together, on opposite sides of her small kitchen table, and the distance between them seamed to him to be as immense as the ocean, just now. Ruth had cooked a fine supper, and poured them both a glass of fine red wine, but she had no warm, soft smiles to share with him now. She kept her gaze firmly on her plate, and she did not speak a word.
And how was Harry meant to respond to such an awkward silence? What words could he possibly say to set her mind at ease, to coax out one of those charming smiles he loved so well? Of late it seemed to Harry that every time he opened his mouth to speak to her something went wrong, and she always seemed to leave him looking more sorrowful than when he'd begun. The situation between them now was delicate; he'd proposed to her yesterday, and confessed to committing murder today, and he wasn't sure why exactly she hadn't thrown him out of her home yet, but he was determined to stay for as long as he was able.
So Harry did not speak. He ate his supper, recalling a time years before when Ruth had arranged to have food parcels delivered to his home, so that he would be able to survive on more than tuna and crisps and whiskey. Briefly he contemplated reminding her of this fact, but in the end he decided against it, not wanting to push his luck. Those few days he had spent under suspension were memorable for another reason, one that had nothing to do with food; it was, as near as he could reckon it, the first time that he had ever felt the warmth of Ruth's skin beneath his fingertips. And if he remembered it so clearly, in such crystalline detail, it stood to reason that she would recall it, as well. To raise such a reminiscence might serve to remind her of the quiet yearning that had bound them together, or it might well spook her, might give the ceaseless churning of her mind cause to wonder what his motivations were, in speaking to her thus. In all honesty, he had come here tonight with high hopes for them, hopes that perhaps he might offer her a kiss, and she might accept it, and in this way they might move past the wall they'd erected between them. He could not bear to have those hopes crushed so early in the evening, and so he did not mention it.
He would have to say something, though, he realized. If they really intended to be married one day, they would have to find a way to bloody speak to one another, to sit alone in a room together and not find themselves suffocated by loneliness and doubt. He had dared to hope that some semblance of the old Ruth - the somewhat bumbling, chatty girl she had been when they first met - might put in an appearance this evening. She could be downright adorable, when she got all flustered and the words poured forth from her lips unchecked. The color would rise in her cheeks, and her blue eyes would sparkle, and the desire to kiss her that he always felt when she was near would skyrocket to new heights. There was no sign of the old Ruth tonight, however; this was the new Ruth, the darker, sadder, quieter woman who had returned to him from Cyprus amidst death and pain. He loved this Ruth just as much as the old one, though for different reasons; she had grown, had learned, had changed, and somewhere along the way she had become fused with his very soul, become his partner, his confidante, his only friend. Had he ruined their tenuous relationship, by pressing her for more? Was there no going back from this? Could it be, he wondered, that this dream he'd harbored for them was no more than a dream, a phantom to be cherished in the darkness but disappearing like a wisp of smoke in the harsh light of day?
For Christ's sake, man, he told himself firmly. She's just a woman, not a bloody riddle. Talk to her.
And so he did.
"Are you all right, Ruth?" he asked her softly.
This was un-bloody-bearable, as far as Ruth was concerned; she had dared to hope, before Harry arrived, that he might have had a plan. She had dared to hope that when he came to her that night he would be as charming and commanding as he had been when they first met, and that she would be able to simply let go, and allow him to lead her through these awkward first steps of their new relationship. As it was, however, she was not blessed with the Harry of old. This was Harry as she had come to know him, as he had been since her return from Cyprus; he was solicitous and gentle and quiet, and he never pushed for more, and he never made demands of her. The somewhat bombastic man she'd known before had become withdrawn and hesitant; not in a professional capacity, but in a personal one. Ruth sometimes got the feeling that he had been hurt one too many times, and never truly recovered.
It had filled her with hope, to know that he was once more feeling brave where she was concerned. She had thought that, having found the confidence to propose to her in the first place, Harry might have realized that she was not running from him, that she would not shatter like glass at the first provocation, that she was here, and his for the asking. It seemed he had not realized this, however, or if he had, he simply wasn't asking, and that concerned her. Was he not interested? Was this not what he wanted? Had she misunderstood, perhaps, his intentions when he asked her to marry him? The rather horrible notion that he meant what he'd told her in the churchyard, that he only wanted to be married so that he would not be alone, had sunk its teeth into her, and it refused to let go.
The longer he went without speaking to her, the more certain she became that she had made a mistake. This might be enough for Harry, this sitting here quietly and sharing a meal and then going their separate ways, but it was not, and would not ever be, enough for Ruth. For years she had dreamed about sharing her life, her heart, her body with him, and she could not tolerate a future in which they were hardly more than housemates. Such a fate would break her heart, break her spirit, and she knew that she might not ever recover from the devastation of all her hopes.
So Ruth sat, and worried, and played with her supper, until Harry's gentle voice broke her reverie.
"Are you all right, Ruth?" he asked her in that tender, warm tone of voice she had missed so dearly.
Am I all right? She wondered, taking a long sip of wine to buy herself a moment to think. No, I'm not bloody all right. And I won't be until you kiss me, you stupid man.
"I can't help thinking we've made a mistake, Harry," she confessed. Across the table she watched as his face fell, and though it hurt, to see him look so wounded, it helped her, too, to know that he was as troubled by the notion as was she. "I mean, look at us. We can't even talk to one another."
"It's only been a few minutes," he protested.
Ruth shook her head, took another sip of wine. "I don't know what I'm supposed to say," she explained eventually. "I mean, what do people even talk about, over dinner?"
It was a genuine question; Ruth had not been on a date since her return from Cyprus. Before that, there was only George, and one single, glorious, too-brief dinner with Harry himself, and before that, well, before there were years of quiet Friday nights spent either on the Grid or home alone with her cats. It had been a long time since Ruth had dated, and dated well, and she was feeling more than a little lost.
"Well, I imagine they talk about their days," Harry suggested. Having finished his meal he leaned back in his chair, cradling his wine glass in his hand and regarding her with a wary, if somewhat amused sort of expression. She could read that amusement in the gentle uptick of his full, pouty lips, and that amusement buoyed her confidence; if he was feeling comfortable enough to look at her this way, perhaps they might find their way through, after all.
It was on the tip of her tongue to lean forward and rather playfully ask him, and how was your day, Harry? But then she remembered, remembered how he'd spent his day, and the urge to tease him left her all at once.
"Do you want to talk to me about your day, Harry?" she asked him softly.
He sighed and shifted in his chair, putting down his wine glass and clasping his hands together on the table before him.
"Not particularly, no," he admitted. "But," he added, before she could go feeling sorry for the pair of them again, "You could tell me how your day was instead."
Ruth smiled, just a little, and shook her head. "You don't want to hear about that."
"Of course I do," he countered. "What did you do today, Ruth?"
Infernal bloody man, she thought fondly; just the way he was looking at her, as if he could see straight through her, set her cheeks to burning.
"I-I went to the shops," she said finally.
"Did you buy that dress?" he prompted.
Ruth looked down at herself, still blushing. "Yes," she admitted. Yes, she had purchased a new dress for the occasion, a soft grey dress with a somewhat more daring neckline than she usually favored, one that clung to her frame and went rather well with her tall black boots. She had resisted temptation and foregone her usual cardigan, leaving her arms bare beneath the short sleeves, and she was glad of it now, thankful for the way Harry's eyes roamed over her appreciatively.
"I like it," he said in that same smooth tone of voice, the one that turned her insides to butter and left her tongue-tied and reeling.
"Harry-"
"You look beautiful, Ruth. You always do."
This is more like it, he thought, watching the color rising in her cheeks. She had come back to life, somehow; all it had taken was one little question to get the ball rolling, and now she was with him, talking and blushing and smiling at him shyly from beneath her thick eyelashes.
"Where do we go from here, Harry?" she asked him.
"Well, I was thinking first we ought to finish our wine and then, if you're so inclined, I think I'd rather like to dance with you," he responded. Yes, he would like that very much; he could move her coffee table and clear a space in the sitting room, and they could wind themselves around each other until all he could see, all he could feel was her. That would suit him just fine.
"That sounds lovely, Harry," she was blushing again, he noted with some amusement, "but I meant more…with the marriage thing. How quickly do we move here?"
Ruth was worrying her napkin between her fingertips the way she had done all those years before, when he had spoken to her quietly of his dreams of the Grand Tour, and the anxiety had come pouring out of her in waves. In fact, Ruth was nearly always fidgeting in his presence, though she usually had a pen or a file in hand, and not a napkin. Why do I make you so nervous, Ruth? He wondered.
It seemed to Harry that he needed to move very carefully here. He would have happily married her tomorrow, taken her into his bed, into his home that very night, but he knew that Ruth was more circumspect in nature. Such an answer would only make her uncomfortable, and he was loath to loose the geniality he had carefully begun to cultivate in her.
"As fast or as slow as you like," he responded.
"That's not an answer, Harry," she chided him. Still her fingers moved ceaselessly over the napkin, and a little crease formed between her eyebrows as she frowned at him. She needed something more concrete, he realized; Ruth, his darling Ruth, was the sort of person who needed a plan. She needed order, needed a goal to reach for, and she was clearly uneasy with the idea of an open-ended arrangement between them. He had asked her to be his wife and she had accepted, and now she needed to know how they planned to make that dream a reality.
"I don't have timetable in mind, honestly." He finished off his wine, and in stroke of boldness, reached across the table to cover one of her fidgeting hands with his own. "I was thinking it might be nice if we did this a bit more often, if we shared a few more meals, if we talked a bit more, and then, when you're comfortable, we can talk about setting a date."
And when you're comfortable, Ruth, when you're ready, I am going to take you into my arms, and I am going to make you scream my name.
"That...that would be nice, Harry." She was staring down at the place where their hands were joined; her skin was soft, but cold, and Harry found himself quite suddenly overwhelmed by the urge to rise from his chair, to draw her to him, to share his warmth with her. If he had his way, Ruth would never be cold again.
"How about that dance, then?"
This is bizarre, Ruth thought as she fussed about with the record player, listening to Harry dragging her heavy coffee table to the corner of the sitting room. Her hands were shaking as she fit the needle onto the record; she was about to dance with Harry Pearce, here, in her sitting room, on a chilly Saturday night after sharing a meal with him. And one day soon, she was going to marry him, to come home to him at the end of every day. It was strange, and exciting, and terrifying, all at once. Ruth wasn't quite sure how they had gone from barely speaking to this, but she was thankful for it, all the same.
As the music began to play Harry came to stand beside her; he snaked one strong arm around her waist, and drew her away from the bookshelf, and into the center of the room. They found their way into a dance hold, sliding together like two pieces of a puzzle locking into place. Ruth took a deep breath, and let him lead her, let him hold her, let the warmth of his body soak through her dress and fill her up with longing for him. As they swayed softly in time to the music he gazed down at her, and the heat spilling out of his hazel eyes left her breathless. She wanted, very much, for him to kiss her. She wanted him to kiss her, and she did not ever want him to stop.
They had only truly kissed once before, on that terrible grey morning when she left him by the docks. That kiss had been born of desperation, the knowledge that she would never see him again making her bold. Ruth was not feeling particularly bold tonight; though they had made some progress, established some parameters for their new relationship, she was still not certain of her position with him. If he wanted to kiss her, she would welcome it, but she would not make the first move.
And so she waited, and they danced, drawing ever nearer to one another.
This was a kind of heavenly torture, Harry mused, a delicious, sweet, aching torture. To hold her in his arms, close enough that he could smell the warm, earthy scent of her hair, that he could feel the softness of her breasts brushing against his chest, the gentle swaying of her hips in perfect harmony with his own, was killing him slowly. All he wanted, in that moment, was to kiss her. He wanted to bend his head, to capture her lips with his own, and devour her whole.
He hesitated, though; she was clearly confused, about what their future together might look like, and though he dearly wished to show her all the dreams he held for them, he did not want to overwhelm her with the force of his desire for her. He prevaricated, as he guided her in a slow, languorous circle there in her living room; one moment he was sure that his chance had come, but the next she would look away, blushing, and he would become convinced that he needed to wait.
But the song was drawing to a close, and he was running out of time. And so he took a deep breath, and took a chance.
The moment she looked up at him, he bowed his head, and, ever so gently, brushed her lips with his. It lasted no more than half a second, but when he pulled back he saw the warmth in her ocean-blue eyes, saw the ruby-red bow of her lips form a surprised little O, and his self-control snapped.
He lifted one hand to cradle her cheek, and brushed his thumb softly across the rise of her cheekbone as he leaned in again, and this time, she was ready. They did not crash together; they simply tumbled into this kiss, her arms snaking around his neck, her fingers toying with the soft curls at the back of his head as he ran his tongue across the seam of her lips, and she opened her mouth to him with a sigh of deep contentment.
