We promise there will be more regular updates of this fic from now on.
He's pleasantly surprised to find that she is ready when he arrives on her doorstep at 7pm sharp. She ushers him into the hallway and he watches as she finishes stuffing tissues and an assortment of other things into a small sized handbag.
"Where are we going?"
"That's for me to know and you to find out," he tells her and laughs as she rolls her eyes at him.
"Well, for your sake, I hope I'm dressed appropriately," she warns and then turns slightly pink as his eyes scan her body. She feels absurd and moves her weight from one foot to the other as his eyes sweep over her cream coloured top with its plunging, but not too revealing neckline, and down to her black linen trousers, and on to her sandals before dragging his eyes back the way they had come.
"You look..." he trails of unsure of how he's supposed to end the sentence. Would a friend tell her she looks beautiful? He thinks not and is disappointed that he can't pay her a full compliment, when she deserves one. In the end he settles for something from the middle ground and smiles warmly at her as he ends it with, "lovely, Ruth."
She blushes and fiddles with the strap of her handbag. She's never been good with accepting compliments, especially ones from Harry, and desperately wants to move the focus off of herself. "You, er, look nice too," she mutters, awkwardly, and hopes that he will save them both any further embarrassment.
He can read her like a book sometimes and knows he needs to get them back to safe ground. "We should go. Don't want to be late."
She smiles, and follows his lead.
"Taxi?" she asks, at the sight of it parked outside her driveway. It's not unusual for them to return by taxi, but they're normally taken by Harry's driver. Something about this now separates it entirely from work and, as terrifying as that is, she finds she rather likes it.
"Yes."
"Are we drinking?"
"I told you, I'm giving nothing away."
"I don't like surprises."
"Don't you trust me?"
There is an overly long silence at his last question – the trouble is, she doesn't know if she does. With her life, yes. With her heart, she doesn't know.
"Ruth?"
"Yes, sorry. Just not when I know you're up to something."
"Sensible woman."
He holds open the door to the taxi; the brush of his hand against the small of her back as he guides her in is electric for them both, and it's with regret that he removes it to close the door and whisper further instructions to the taxi driver.
"It's not an op, you know?" she mutters, pouting at him as he climbs in beside her.
"Patience."
"Can I guess?"
"No."
She makes a small noise of frustration at his poker face and realises that even if she tries, he won't give it up.
"Tell you what, you can tell me what you'd like it to be, and we'll see if they're the same thing."
"That's not the point. They're not likely to match are they?"
"So. I'll know exactly where to take you next time."
She makes the same noise of frustration again; this time, because he is far too good at this game of tripping her up and tricking her into these situations. If she doesn't answer, there is the embarrassment of providing a reason why she won't, and if she does answer, there is the embarrassment that he knows how much she has thought about this. She closes her eyes and tries desperately to think of the clever way out of this which she knows must exits.
"Maybe there won't be a next time if you keep insisting on being so secretive," she challenges. She is exasperated but elated, infuriated yet completely infatuated, and it's a funny sort of combination only he has ever made her feel.
"We'll see," he mutters, calmly, and she wishes for the millionth time that his self confidence in situations like this wasn't so damn attractive. She still marvels at the way he changes from gently passionate to charmingly cocky, from quietly unsure to blindingly quick-witted and wonders if she'll ever get used to the range of genuine sides of himself he is prepared to show to her.
"We will," she replies, but her poker face is far less polished that his, and the traces of a smile are evident at the corners of her lips.
--
"I know where we are," she whispers as the taxi pulls up at the kerbside and Harry leans forward to pay the fare. "This is the Riverside Studios Cinema."
"So it is," he murmurs as he collects his change. "I'm glad to see your observational skills are still second to none."
He has opened the door and stepped out onto the pavement before she can answer back and has no choice but to follow him out of the taxi. "Why are we here?"
"To see a film," he tells her matter of factly, and chuckles as she rolls her eyes at him. He grabs her hand, on impulse, and drags her inside, only realising as they queue for tickets that he is still holding her hand in his. He is buoyed by the fact that she hasn't reclaimed it back, and wonders if she is as shocked at his actions as he is. He's caught in a dilemma about what to do; if he let's go of her hand now, he worries that she might see it as some sort of rejection but, then again, what if she isn't happy that he's touching her? His dilemma is solved as they reach the head of the line and he needs to reach into his jacket pocket for his wallet.
"Two please," he tells the woman behind the desk, and hands over a twenty pound note.
"There's a double feature tonight, 'From Russia With Love' is followed by 'Goldfinger', that ok?"
"Fine," he answers, automatically, only realising after he's got the tickets that he hasn't checked if it's alright with Ruth. He hopes she's not hungry. When he turns to her to ask if it's alright he can see the amusement clearly on her face.
"You brought me to see James Bond?!"
"I brought you to see Sean Connery," he corrects and ushers her towards the concession stand. They bicker good naturedly all the way through ordering their shared popcorn and drinks and are still debating who was the better Bond – Sean Connery or Roger Moore – as they find some seats in the middle of the small theatre.
"Of course Connery is the better Bond, Harry."
"You're just saying that because you fancy him!" he teases as he shoots her a flirtatious look.
"Just for that I'm not going to share the popcorn with you," she tells him, indignantly, and clutches the bag of popcorn tightly against her with one hand as the other grabs a handful of popcorn and stuffs it in her mouth.
"Very mature, Ruth," he admonishes, playfully, and tries to lean over and take some of the snack. She moves it to one side and the hand that is feeding popcorn into her mouth gets knocked by him sending popcorn flying everywhere.
"That's your own mouthful you just wasted."
"I thought you weren't sharing."
"Damn."
He laughs and bends down to her ear. "Now, now, play nice."
She has to close her eyes to fight against the sensations and images his words momentarily create, and when she opens them, he's looking at her quite seriously, and she almost doesn't know if she can breathe.
"We should…um…film…seats."
He smiles, just briefly, but it's warm and sincere, and she knows he can tell just how overwhelmed she sometimes is. He waits for her to move, and follows closely behind her, his body all but touching hers.
She shivers at knowing he is so close and, as they take their seats, he spreads his knees just a little, so his leg rests against hers, enjoying the contact it brings. The lights are still up and, if she is surprised or annoyed by his gesture, it doesn't show on her face. Instead, she remains almost impassive, the ghost of a smile imprinted across her features as she observes the people around them with almost studious dedication, waiting for the lights to fall.
More soon... x
