When she returns and knocks, he calls for her to enter, but the moment she opens the door, she freezes in the doorway at the sight that greets her. Harry's already out of the bath, a towel wrapped around his waist as he stands at the sink shaving. She feels like she's intruding on something very intimate and personal, and she almost makes up her mind to back out of the room. But her curiosity keeps her there for a moment too long, and suddenly, she finds the sight of Harry's right bicep bunching and relaxing as he slides the cheep razor across his foam covered face highly erotic and now she can't move.

"Shut the door, Ruth. It's freezing," she hears him say and almost jumps at the rough sound of his voice, and as she raises her eyes to meet his in the mirror, she has a feeling that he knows exactly what's been running though her head. Swiftly, she looks away and turns to shut the door, inwardly cursing her lack of self-control.

"Sorry," she says, doing her best to keep her voice level. "I have the bandages here when you're ready." She glances at him again, seeing him step a little to the side to give her room next to the sink to put down the supplies she's carrying. So she moves forward and busies herself preparing everything, keeping her gaze resolutely on what she's doing and away from him. She doesn't dare try to watch him again, but she can't help wondering why he's bothering to shave at this hour and in the present circumstances.

"It relaxes me," he murmurs softly, causing her eyes to snap up and meet his in the mirror in shock. How on earth had he known what she'd been thinking, she wonders in amazement as he adds, "I usually prefer a glass of whisky in the evening, but as none is available tonight, I thought this might help."

She smiles and looks down, nodding as she tucks away that information in her heart, ridiculously pleased that he's shared something so personal with her. "I prefer a glass of wine," she confesses, glancing up at him in the mirror for a moment to find him smiling.

He nods and turns his eyes back on his reflection and it doesn't take him long to finish up. Soon she's carefully cleaning his wound, hating the pain she's causing him but knowing it has to be done. His knuckles have turned white as he grips the sink hard, leaning over it so she can reach his injury and see what she's doing under the light coming from above the sink. He isn't making a sound, though there's the occasional hitch in his breathing, and she wonders why men have this need to hide their pain and always appear strong. Soon she's done the best job she can, so she places a bandage over his wound before wrapping some gauze around his head to hold it in place.

Once she's finished, she steps back and smiles at his grumpy expression as he eyes himself in the mirror. "Don't you think you overdid it a little, Ruth?" he pouts.

"We don't want it to move in your sleep," she replies quietly, turning away to hide her smile. "Besides," she adds, "it's not bad. It makes you look like a wounded hero in one of those WWII films."

"As long as I don't look like that bloke in the English Patient," he grumbles.

"The English Patient?" she asks in surprise and her eyes light up with mischief. "Harry, how long has it actually been since you went to see a film?" He shrugs and clears his throat in embarrassment, his ears turning red again before she relents and adds, "You could do worse that look like Ralph Fiennes, Harry. He's rather good looking. Why don't you like him?"

"I found his character rather irritating," he shrugs, "not to mention the fact that he betrays everything and everyone for a woman."

"For love, Harry," she amends absently as she begins to collect the things she's used.

"That's not love, Ruth," he replies seriously and she can't help lifting her eyes to his. "True love is selfless and honourable. One must strive to never go against what is right, especially for love. If you do that, you lose everything because, if she truly loves you, she'll lose all respect for you because you have betrayed your principles; you have betrayed yourself."

She stares at him for a moment in silence, her heart hammering in her chest as she tries to recover, but before she can formulate any kind of a response, he's already left the bathroom, murmuring something about getting dressed.


The room is warm, despite the storm still raging outside, the wind howling and making the trees creak, the rain lashing at the windows, and the thunder shaking the house. The fire crackling in the grate is wonderfully warm and cheerful, and as she slips into bed, she sighs in relief and contentment. The hot-water bottle down by her feet feels wonderful and the think layer of blankets soon begins to warm her up again, especially once Harry gets in bed next to her. She feels the bed dip as he slides in beside her, and without pausing to think about it lest she lose her nerve, she turns, sidles up to him and wraps her arm around his chest, pressing against his side.

She feels him freeze as she leans into him and immediately regrets her actions, but as she's about to pull away again, a particularly loud clap of thunder has her tightening her arm around him and burying her face against his shoulder in momentary alarm. He chuckles softly and turns towards her even as she tries to roll away in embarrassment at her apparent fear, not wanting him to think less of her, particularly as she's never been scared of thunderstorms – the sound just startled her. But as he pulls her against his chest and rubs his hand up and down her back to warm her, the sensation is so wonderful that she stops moving, swallowing her embarrassment and letting herself relax against him instead, not hesitating to seize the moment even for a second, knowing that she's unlikely to ever get another opportunity like this to lie in Harry's strong arms.

"Better?" he asks after a bit as a sign of deep contentment escapes her.

"Much," she mumbles against his chest. "You're so warm, Harry."

"As are you," he replies, his arm ceasing its motion and his hand coming to rest against her back, between her shoulder blades.

They lie still for some time, adjusting to the feel of each other, and though initially she's hyper-aware of his proximity and she feels the warm tingling of desire deep in her belly, soon the fatigue from their ordeal kicks in and she begins to relax. She presses herself further against him, cuddling up to him even more as her physical exhaustion catches up with her, her brain becoming sluggish and unable to remember and hold onto all the reasons why she should keep her distance from Harry... boss spook... her boss... wonderful man... her wonderful man... her Harry...

"G'night, Harry," she mumbles.

"Goodnight, Ruth," he replies in a husky voice, and as she begins to drift off to sleep, her final thought is a fervent wish that she might one day be allowed the privilege of always sharing his bed like this – not for the sex, which she's sure would be quite wonderful, but for the sheer pleasure of holding him, feeling his warm body against hers, inhaling his wonderful Harry smell, and feeling utterly safe and secure. Before she can fall into a deep sleep, however, she feels him move away from her a little and murmurs a sleepy apology as she begins to pull away, sure that she's making him uncomfortable by being so close but, luckily, feeling too tired and sleepy to think or feel any kind of unease or embarrassment. "No," he objects quickly. "Don't go. I just need to... turn around. My... er... arm's going to sleep."

"Okay," she mumbles, opening her eyes for a moment and watching him turn his back towards her and the fireplace before she presses herself against his back and wraps her arm round his chest, finding enough mental and physical energy to ask him, "Is this okay? I'm still cold."

"It's very nice," he murmurs as he places his hand over hers, making her smile as she closes her eyes and drifts off to sleep.