A/N- For some reason, I had a hard time letting go of this chapter. I hope it brings you some enjoyment. Thank you so much for reading and as always reviews are greatly appreciated!


It should have come as no surprise how easily he slipped back into his old habits. Two glasses of scotch as he waited at the bar, the empty bottle of wine that now sat on the table in front of him, and the tantalising thought of a brandy with dessert. He was even entertaining the idea of a fine Monte Cristo that lay waiting for him in a box at home. Of course, that would all depend on the direction of the evening. Harry swirled the wine in his glass and took another sip, stealing an appreciative glance over the rim at his companion. It was obvious why Ariadne Kolos had chosen that particular restaurant; the subdued lighting cast a very flattering glow on whoever sat beneath it. He only hoped the lights were as flattering to him as they were to her. Unaware of his thoughts, his dinner companion concentrated on slicing her entree, eating her meal with enticingly painted lips. Her blouse was unbuttoned to the point of suggestion but not past modesty, her hair loose and unpinned, framing her face. Yes, it would all depend on how the evening unfolded whether or not he would partake in a cigar or indulge in a different sort of vice. Sensing his gaze, Ariadne gave him a smile.

"I'm curious - what is it that you do all day?"

"I'll tell you, if you tell me what you do," he answered, evading the question, wondering why she was so intent on discovering the details of his work.

"Meetings, conference calls, entertaining clients. In fact, my firm has box seats at Lord's - if you're interested." She raised an inquiring brow. " Unless that's looking too far ahead."

"Spring is around the corner," Harry conceded, salivating slightly at the idea of prime seats at the hallowed venue. A jaded man might think it was almost too good to be true; a beautiful, intelligent woman, professional, cricket enthusiast. And Harry was nothing if not jaded. Never take anything at face value. Still, he was curious to see where an association with this woman would lead.

Ariadne lifted the tip of her fork and subtly pointed in the direction of the bar. "There's a man over there that keeps looking this way."

"Ah, yes." Harry cleared his throat and shifted in his seat, the air of romance slightly tarnished. "That's my bodyguard. Trevor."

"Bodyguard?" she echoed in surprise. "That certainly makes things a bit crowded, doesn't it?"

"Don't worry." The corner of his mouth lifted with a crooked grin. "I can dispense of him should the need arise."

Understanding the inference, Ariadne smiled down at her meal. Her foot brushed against his, and Harry wondered if it was purely by accident or a silent invitation. He scanned the restaurant searching for their waiter, intent on ordering another bottle of wine. The dive back into alcohol had created a welcome haze and he planned to sustain the bubble for as long as possible. It was the least he deserved after his visit with the psychologist and his meeting with Sasha. He sat back, giving himself permission to enjoy the moment, appreciating the food and the company. Through the clatter of cutlery and the murmur of voices, the notes from an overhead speaker filtered into his ear. A familiar tune that he could not place. He frowned in concentration, mulling over whether or not it was the same tune that had played the night he had met Ariadne. This time, it was not a solo piano but a lush orchestra, strings rising in an aching crescendo. It wasn't the same song, he concluded; it was the feeling that it evoked. All that was perfect about the evening faded, his contentment poised in sharp relief against what was missing.

"Senschut," he whispered.

"What's that?"

Ariadne's question brought him back to the present moment, the feeling of unfulfilled longing retreating but not entirely abating.

"A German word that came to mind."

"What does it mean?"

He pursed his lips, holding back his words, knowing how tactless it would be to speak of another woman. It would also be an admission of vulnerability, one that he could not reveal to this stranger.

"It's hard to translate."

"Ah," she accepted his deferral. "Germans have a word for everything, don't they?"

Harry nodded, making the mental effort to dismiss the strange feeling of loss that had enveloped him and focus on the present. The pocket of his suit jacket vibrated, and he closed his eyes, annoyed at the intrusion, wanting to ignore the call but concerned that it might be important. He discretely took the mobile out of his pocket and looked at the display under the cover of the table. It was an unknown number.

"Everything alright?" Ariadne asked.

He placed the mobile back in his pocket. If it was important, they would leave a message.

"Yes, it's all fine." His wine glass was annoyingly empty. He needed a brandy. "Are you interested in dessert?"

"They serve a decadent chocolate cake here. The piece is entirely too big for one person."

Her foot brushed against his leg, the contact lingering for a moment, the meaning clear. He returned the pressure with his calf. It had been a long time since he had indulged in chocolate cake. Spotting the waiter, he raised his hand, but his pocket vibrated mid-motion. A light blinked indicating a message.

"Sorry." He gave Ariadne a look of sheepish contrition. "I should probably take this."

Taking the napkin from his lap, he dabbed the corners of his mouth and then rose. A few paces away, a tiny alcove offered refuge from the ambient noise of the restaurant and a safe distance from prying ears. He pressed the menu buttons and held the mobile to his cheek. A planted palm stood in front of him, shielding him from the other patrons, and he idly picked off a brown leaf as he begrudgingly listened to the message. As the words of the message tumbled out, his fingers closed around the dead leaf, absently crushing it to dust. The plant in front of him blurred and he leaned back against the wall. Fingers shaking, he replayed the message. He looked through the palm fronds, eyes darting back and forth, certain that he was being watched. The sound of rushing water filled his ears as his arm fell to his side, the mobile hanging limply in his hand. The effects of the evening's alcohol drained from his system. The noise of the restaurant seeped back into his consciousness. Limbs moving of their own volition, he gave himself over to automatic pilot and walked back to the table.

"Terribly sorry." He stood looking down at Ariadne. "Something's come up."

"Of course." She gave him a disappointed half smile of understanding. "I suppose that's what your job entails."

"I'll settle the bill." He patted his pockets.

She stood up, making ready to leave with him. "I'll go too."

He put up his hand in protest, not wanting to be followed. "Don't end the evening on my account. You should stay and have the cake."

Her eyes narrowed slightly, assessing how far she could push him. She leaned over and brushed her lips against his cheek and whispered in his ear. "Next time."

He pulled his head back, putting a modest distance between her face and his. He nodded, giving her the impression that there would be a next time without committing to it verbally. Cutting the conversation short, he left the woman and his previous thoughts about the evening behind him at the table and made his way toward the coat check.

"Everything alright, sir."

Abandoning his post at the bar, Trevor appeared at Harry's shoulder. Harry grimaced, the presence of his security detail having completely fled from his mind.

"Yes, I have to go back to Thames House for a moment." He shrugged on his coat and motioned to the back of the restaurant. "I need to visit the gents before we leave."

"I'll check it out first."

"No need, I'll be fine."

Before his bodyguard could protest, Harry was off in the direction of the washroom. As he entered the small corridor, he exhaled a sigh of relief; his wager on the layout of the restaurant paying off. He walked past the washroom signs and sailed through a swinging steel door that led into the kitchen. Pots clanged, steam hissed, and grills sizzled as the staff shouted at one another. The overhead fluorescent lighting gave him no cover and a flustered sous chef warned him that the area was for staff only. He ignored the call and headed toward a red exit sign. The metal crash bar squeaked and the door banged loudly behind him as he stepped through. Dustbins and the smell of rotting food greeted him in a back alley. Rain splattered his face, and he blinked the drops away, turning up the collar of his coat. Without pausing, he slipped on his gloves and walked out of the alley.

The pavement was dotted with fellow travellers, vainly raising their hands in hopes of hailing a cab. Taxi after occupied taxi drove past, the chances of securing one looking slim. Harry glanced over his shoulder, anticipating that at any moment Trevor would turn up by his side. A few metres down the block, a young man proved successful in hailing a cab. Harry wasted no time. As the man opened the door, Harry stepped in front of him, feeling no compunction as he cut the man off and snared the vehicle for himself. He closed the door on the young man's shouts of outrage and calmly relayed his destination to the driver.

Rain tapped against the window, turning into angry fingers of sleet demanding to be let in. The cab lurched in fits and starts through the congested streets giving Harry time to think. Years of field experience clamoured in his head, a voice warning him that he had no idea what he was walking into. Instinct countered with the maxim that gambling was his way of life. But this wasn't a calculated risk, this was reckless by any standard.

Through the veil of rain, the station sign appeared in the distance, but before they could reach it the taxi slowed down to a crawl. Cars were parked two deep as pedestrians dodge between them, their umbrellas losing the battle with the wind. The driver turned to Harry and shrugged his shoulders admitting defeat. In the melee of the evening traffic, he couldn't pull any closer to the station entrance. Harry pulled out a wad of notes and handed them over to the driver, not stopping to calculate the fare. Undaunted by the rain, he jumped out of the cab.

Tyres screeched and Harry plastered himself back against the side of the taxi, narrowly avoiding the wheels of an oncoming car. The collar of his coat was scant protection against the elements but he remained impervious to the sting of the rain, focusing instead on picking his way through the traffic. At the station entrance, commuters jostled and shoved against each other as umbrellas locked together. Rather than fight the tide, Harry let himself be carried along. He shoved an unknown bill into the machine and took whatever ticket presented itself.

The stairs were slick with water and he hastily grabbed the railing as his foot slid on the tread. It wouldn't do to fall victim to a concussion. The idea of injury gave him pause and he stopped, leaving the crowd to funnel around him, indifferent to his dilemma. The voice of experience rose once again. What was he doing? He was ignoring all his training, throwing caution to the wind and running headlong into an uncontrolled setting. For all he knew, it could be a set-up, a massive bait and switch to lure him away from his protection detail. For indeed that is exactly what he had done; given his guard the slip. They might be preying on the fact that in his current state of mind he would readily believe any message that was sent to him. He ran his hand across his face, wiping the dripping rain from his cheeks. Turn around, go back. He pounded his fist on the rail. Blind instinct drove him forward. Keep going.

Harry immersed himself in the crush of commuters; head down, a face in the crowd, invisible. If it was a setup, he would make it harder for them to find him. One level below and he stopped, eyes scanning the crowd. In the moving sea of humanity, one man stood out. Dressed in a leather jacket, the man waited by a newsstand, paper in hand, his head moving back and forth as he methodically dissected the crowd. All the hallmarks of surveillance. Harry studied the man, trying to discern his motives. Before Harry had time to look way, the man's eyes locked onto him. Unable to move, Harry stared back. A crush of people passed between them and the stranger disappeared. Harry searched for him again, committing his description to memory; shorn hair, stocky build, tattoo. The man was nowhere to be seen. They were pulling him in. This was their modus operandi. The cover of a crowd, a man bumping into him, a sudden prick so subtle that he would think it the corner of a briefcase or an umbrella. After a few steps, Harry would feel dizzy. The deed done before he even knew what had happened. That was all it had taken to fell Tariq. Harry was well versed in their playbook and yet he still kept going. Let them do to him what they will.

One more flight of stairs and he was down to the platform. The foot traffic slowed as the crowd was funnelled into the waiting area. Conversation evaporated and the atmosphere grew eerily silent, stranger pressed against stranger. Craning his neck, Harry looked over the crowd. He shouldered his way through the minuscule amount of breathing space, garnering angry looks for his trouble.

A voice crackled over the loudspeaker advising travellers to stand back from the edge, but there was no place to move. A gust of wind stirred a page from an abandoned newspaper and it floated onto the track. Harry followed its path with his eyes. Lost and forlorn, it skitted along the rails. A different scenario crossed his mind, and he searched the crowd, looking to see if the unknown man was in range. One small shove and it could be Harry on the tracks. Given his recent mindset, it would be ruled as suicide. No one would investigate him, no one would care.

Beneath his feet, the platform rumbled and the crowd stirred in anticipation. Deep in the tunnel steel clacked against steel, signalling the train's impending arrival. Harry squinted at the crowd, his internal clock telling him that time was running out.

Wind rushed through the tunnel, ruffling hair and fanning coats, preceding the train as it pulled into the station. The crowd jostled towards the doors, but Harry hung back, edging towards the wall. As passengers disembarked his heart thudded in his chest, pounding with expectation. The train idled, air hissing from its brakes, the doors remaining open. He scanned the interior of the carriages, eyes darting over the passengers who had remained on board. The train's destination was announced over the speaker. No, he intoned, certain that once the train had left the station, all hope would also vanish with it. The doors closed with a final hiss. Easing out of the station, the train picked up speed and departed. Harry stood alone on the platform.

Fool. He had been a fool to believe that it was her voice on his mobile. They had played him. Sampled her speech and constructed a message that he could not ignore. It must have been her voice on the phone, it had to be. He knew every cadence of her speech, he had heard it every night in his dreams. If it had not been a trick then surely he had gone mad. The visit with the psychologist had not tempered his fantasies it had only created a different delusion.

The clatter of wheels sounded again and a train from the opposite direction barrelled into the station. Brakes squealed as it trundled to a stop. Passengers disgorged, spilling onto the far platform, a new set taking their place. Brakes hissed, a garbled voice made an announcement and the train continued on its way. The scene would continue on repeat. The world carried on without him.

He stood staring at the opposite platform, the weight of his folly keeping him in place. The sound of tapping shoes faded, and voices were swallowed by the stairs, leaving him with only silence for company. On the opposite platform, a lone figure emerged from a place by the wall, hands hidden in the pockets of an overcoat. His muscles tensed, ears anticipating the sound of a bullet ricocheting about the station, certain that the figure was hiding a gun. Against his better judgment, he stepped closer to the edge of the platform and peered across the track. It was a woman; dark hair and a grey trench coat. He closed his eyes.

Go away, you're not real.

He opened his eyes. The woman was looking straight at him. He stared at her in disbelief, and she remained equally frozen, trapped by his gaze. The paper stirred on the track, the air shifting, signalling a distant train. Before he could do anything, the woman turned and moved toward the stairs. Mind slowly kicking into gear, his feet propelled him to the stairs on his side, each step coming faster and faster until he was running. His lungs protested as he took the stairs two at a time. Once he had reached the top, he made a beeline in the direction of the opposite staircase. Through the crowd, he could see the top of her head weaving toward him. His mouth moved with a silent prayer. Please be real. With singular determination, he charged through the crowd, pushing unsuspecting bystanders out of the way. He would not stop until the illusion collided with his reality.

She walked straight into him, and he crushed her against his chest, arms winding like steel, trapping her against his body. It must be her, though his arms could not tell for certain, he had never had the pleasure of holding her so close before. The scent of her hair was different but he was afraid to let her go to get a better look, willing to accept the anger of a complete stranger if only to pretend it was her for just one moment.

"Oh Harry," she half sobbed against his neck.

There was only one woman in the world who said his name like that. His embrace tightened and he squeezed his eyes shut, unable to stop tears from rising and spilling out. His chest shook as he let out a ragged breath. This couldn't be real; fate would never give him a second, no third chance with this woman. She pulled her head back and looked up at him. He dared to look into her eyes. Blue as an unfathomable ocean, swimming with tears. It was her. His mouth moved but he could not speak. He pulled her back into him but she pressed her hands against his chest.

"We have to get out of here," Ruth breathlessly warned him. "They might be following me."

His mind grappled with the meaning of the sentence, ration and reason struggling to put emotion away. "Who's following you?"

"I don't know who they are. We have to go."

Harry held her at arm's length, a realisation catching up with him. The man at the newsstand wasn't looking for him, he was looking for Ruth. The instinct to protect her kicked in, and he grabbed her hand, pulling her through the crowd. He could feel her being buffeted against the people in his wake but he didn't stop. She pulled on his arm, resisting his tug.

"Wait," she huffed. "I can't go so fast."

He turned and for the first time registered her appearance. Hair bedraggled, wearing an oversized coat, dirty slippers on her feet. What had happened to her? Her hand rose to her side and she pressed it against her ribs. How could he have forgotten?

"I'm sorry." His voice cracked with the words.

It was more than an apology for walking too fast; it was a request for forgiveness. The lies, the deception, the shard of glass - everything. Whether she discerned his deeper meaning, he did not know, but he knew they could not waste time standing still. Tightening his grip on her hand, he threaded his way through the crowd, guiding her along at a slower pace.

On the street, a gaggle of laughing young women exited from a taxi. One of the party was still in the back seat paying off the fare as Harry ushered Ruth into the cab. Once the dust had settled, Harry gave the driver the first address that came to mind. The cab sped into the night, and they sat in silence not daring to speak, hands laced together on the seat between them. The cab pulled up in front of a darkened house, and Harry dispatched the driver with record speed. Still holding her hand, he hurried up the path to the door. Ruth glanced about the street as he fiddled with the lock.

As they stepped in, light from a nearby street lamp spilled through the transom overhead, barely illuminating the hallway. The lock gave a reassuring click as Harry turned the bolt behind him. It was the house where he had met Elena, but he would never divulge that information. Somehow, bringing Ruth into the space dispelled the trace of any other visitor that had come before her. Afraid to venture in on her own, she stood next to him, waiting. Her breath came in soft pants, and he found her arm in the darkness, claiming her hand once again. He felt compelled to hold her lest she disappear into the ether and become a dream. He had managed to maintain contact with her through the entirety of their taxi ride. Or perhaps it was she who had constantly touched him. He thought it best to leave the lights off, though the creak of the floorboards beneath their feet telegraphed their presence in the house. He ushered her over to an ancient settee and sat her down. He pulled up a chair and sat across from her, taking her cold hand back into his.

"Tell me what happened," he urged.

She looked at him curiously and brought her hand up to his face, her palm caressing his cheek.

"Are you real?" she whispered

Her caress startled him, awakening a thirst in the desert of his life so unaccustomed to touch. He placed his hand over hers, the cool of her fingers permeating his skin. He pressed against it, wanting to hold her hand against him forever. "Are you?"

She answered him with a faint smile and then removed her hand. "I don't know what's happening."

"They told me you were dead."

"They told me the same thing," she echoed back.

They sat for a moment staring at each other in stunned silence, digesting the fact that an unseen force had callously played with their lives.

"Who told you I was dead?" Harry finally asked.

"He said he was from Six. Mark Wilson. He said that you had been killed during a meeting with Gavrik. And they wanted me to figure out Gavrik's finances as a way of avenging your death."

Harry sat back, trying to process the information. "That doesn't make any sense. Why would Six deceive you like that?"

"Why would someone want you to believe that I was dead?" she countered.

He shrugged his shoulders, trying to puzzle out a reason. "Hobble me? Get me out of the Service? I was pretty much incapacitated with grief ."

"You were?"

"Why does that surprise you?"

"I don't know."

She tried to pull her hand away from his, but he would not let her go. Instead, he gathered both of her hands in his and rubbed her icy fingers, gliding his palm over hers, moving along the bones of her wrists and back. Her skin remained alarmingly cold. He dismissed the idea that she was indeed a spectre. His knee accidentally brushed against her leg and he quickly moved it away. Odd, how he welcomed the advances of a stranger under a dinner table but stalled at the idea of touching the woman sitting before him. A figurine in a glass case, far more valuable, and he would treat her accordingly. Besides, her confinement may have given her time to rethink everything she had said to him, her feelings may have changed.

"Where were you?" he pressed.

"I was in a safe house. Or that's what they called it. There was a nurse, Anna. Although I suspect she was a Russian informant. And another man, Eddie, that I thought was with Six but I'm not sure. They were going to fly me out of the country. That's when I escaped."

"How did you do that?"

"Through a hole in the wall."

He smiled, trying to fathom her ingenuity, envisioning her tunnelling underground.

"You're safe here."

"Am I?" she looked around, eyes wild in the darkness. "Are we really safe anywhere?"

He did not reply, she already knew the answer. She looked down at their joined hands, her head moving closer to his, her voice lowering to a whisper in case the walls had ears.

"I took a chance in phoning you." Her hands tightened around his fingers. "When I heard your voice, I could barely speak." Her voice faded out and her body swayed slightly. "I wasn't sure, even if you were alive, that you would still be in the Service."

"I wanted to leave but they wouldn't let me." He shuffled in closer to her. "There's an Interpol warrant out on me."

"Why?"

"Someone had to pay for your death."

She pulled her head back and considered the information. "I'm oddly flattered by that. Most men would have sent flowers to show that they care."

It was a weak attempt at humour. Their eyes met in the darkness. If there was a time for confession it was now, but a chasm of unarticulated emotion lay between them, too large to fill with mere words. Their language had always been action. He had given up a state secret for her, and she had sacrificed her life twice for him. No one could say they lacked for grand gestures. It was the mechanics, the ordinary nuts and bolts of a relationship that tripped them up time and again. Chains of unresolved longing, years of denial, a history too overwhelming to contemplate. So much to unpick. His knee gravitated back to her leg but this time he let it rest against her thigh. She extracted her hand from his and reached out to the lapel of his overcoat. Head tilted to one side, she concentrated on tracing the outline of his lapel, as if rediscovering a lost object. She trapped her bottom lip between her teeth, her chest moving jaggedly with a suppressed sob. He swallowed a lump of dry remorse. Tell her what you whispered into the night. Words swam within him and his mouth opened, but he was unable to give voice to the sentiments that he had said over and over in his dreams. She must know by now how he felt. Her hand stopped on his lapel and a shiver ran through her.

"You're freezing."

"I can't seem to warm up."

"There might be some blankets upstairs. I'll have a look about for some tea."

"I've been dying for a cup of tea."

He rose, debating whether or not to leave her, afraid that she might disappear if she left his sight. She leaned back on the settee and closed her eyes. He would take the chance and get something warm into her. He found his way to the kitchen. A quick investigation of the cupboards turned up an ancient box of tea. The battered kettle clanked as he filled it up, the gas burner hissing as he waited for the water to boil. He took a quick look out of the window, scanning the rear garden. Every shadow became a possible intruder, every noise a threat. He turned his back to the window and leaned against the counter, body shaking from the shock of the past few hours. The whistle sounded on the kettle and he shook his head with a start. Pulling down a chipped brown mug, he poured the water over the sad looking tea bag. He would have to make do without milk or sugar.

The sitting room was empty when he returned, but he subverted his panic by concluding that she had gone upstairs to find a blanket. Steam swirled in the darkness as he balanced the cup of tea in one hand and carefully made his way up the stairs. The first door revealed an empty room. He looked into the second bedroom and was about to leave but stopped when he spotted a dark form lying on the bed. Evidently, she had found a blanket and had wrapped herself up tightly in its folds. Closing the door behind him, he approached the bed.

"Ruth," he whispered.

There was no response. He leaned in closer. She lay on her side, eyes closed, her shoulder moving with the rhythmic breathing of sleep. He carefully placed the cup on the bedside table and sat down on the edge of the bed. She did not stir. What had she been through to cause her to fall into such a deep sleep? Adrenaline still coursed through his veins, he wanted to talk to her all night, lose himself in the inflection of her voice. In lieu of conversation, he contented himself with studying her face, marvelling at the reality of her features. A strand of hair had fallen across her forehead. He hesitated, thoughts of his schoolboy self being warned by his mother not to touch the fragile figurine lest it break. He had never heeded warnings before. With one finger, he brushed the strand of hair back into place. He let his finger trail down her cheek, his knuckle tracing the outline of her jaw, not wanting to disturb her but unable to resist the temptation to touch her.

A sigh left him as he contemplated the situation. He would be missed, his security detail would be frantic. He didn't care. He toed off his shoes and removed his overcoat and suit jacket. A spare blanket lay on a chair, and he picked it up as he crossed over to the other side of the bed. He lowered himself down, the springs groaning beneath his weight. He lay as close to her as he dared. A flood of lonely nights came back to him, he could not leave her now. He would steal one night with her. His hand hovered above her hip, worried that it might be one gesture too far. The time for hesitation was over, every moment was precious. He placed his hand on her hip, the curve of her waist barely discernible beneath the blanket. But it was enough to assure him that she was real.

"Oh, Ruth." He whispered her name into the stillness of the night. "This time, I will protect you."