Somehow, miraculously, they enjoyed the rest of the night uninterrupted by the ringing of the mobile, and when Harry's seldom-used alarm clock began to cheerily herald the coming of a new day he was still wrapped up in his bed, safe and warm with Ruth in his arms. Beside him his lover groaned and buried her head further into the pillows while he reached out and turned the damn thing off, chuckling a little to hear her so grumpy first thing upon waking. Most mornings he was gone well before she woke, rushing to the office to avoid calamity or rushing home for a clean suit, but today they were blessed with an opportunity to enjoy one another's company just a little while longer, and he was determined to enjoy it.

In the satisfying silence that followed in the wake of the alarm Harry smiled, and pressed a kiss against Ruth's bare shoulder, curling his arm that much tighter around her. This earned him a little hum of appreciation from deep in the back of her throat as she turned her head on the pillow, dark hair spilling all around her while her eyelashes fluttered until at last she could stare at him sleepily. It would be a lie to say that those eyes were the first thing Harry noticed about her, when he met Ruth all those years before, the day she came to interview for the job at Thames House. The very first thing he had noticed about her had been her billowing brown tiered skirt and the way the pattern on her blouse clashed so outrageously with the plaid of her blazer. He had taken in the garish outfit and the chunky jewelry and the thick makeup and thought with some distaste that this woman could not possibly stand a chance of surviving the life of a spy; spies by nature must blend in, and everything about her was ostentatious. But then he had remembered his courtesy and reached out to shake her hand and the next thing he knew he was staring into those eyes, deep and brilliantly blue and knowing and sad, and he'd felt rather as if the breath had been knocked right out of him. No, he had not noticed her eyes first, but he remembered discovering them more fondly than almost anything else.

"Good morning," he murmured, leaning forward to brush a gentle kiss against her lips.

She hummed again, eyelids fluttering closed though a smile lingered around the corners of her mouth.

"Do we have to go?" she asked in a tone that was likely meant to be petulant but came across satisfied instead.

"I'm afraid we do," he answered her. "But not yet."

Her eyes snapped open at once, for as he spoke to her his hand drifted down the length of her spine, cresting the swell of her bum, fingers gently teasing between her legs for a moment.

"How much time do we have?" she asked softly, her gaze dancing across his face, her breath hitching slightly as he stroked her tenderly, carefully gauging her reaction.

"If we skip breakfast, we have half an hour before we need to be in the shower."

Ruth grinned and reached back, tossing the duvet aside and revealing herself to Harry's hungry gaze. "I don't think we need to worry about breakfast, do you?" she asked breathlessly.

Ruth had never been particularly fond of mornings, but she rather felt she could grow to like them, if every one began this way. She had always known somewhere in the back of her mind that Harry cared for her - that he loved her, even, regardless of whether or not she ever let him say the words aloud - and he showed the depth of his feelings for her in the way he touched her, held her, kissed her, rocked her to the core. The brush of his fingertips was always tender, his eyes always wide and adoring, and in the strength of his arms, beneath the heat of his body, she felt safe, treasured, protected. That warm feeling of security, of knowing and being known, having a place where she could be entirely herself, free to follow the desires of her heart, left her full of, if not joy, contentment. The world outside was dark and cold, but Harry's bed was warm, and the memory of what they shared there became a talisman for her to cling to when the chaos of their lives threatened to overwhelm her. He had, without even knowing it, calmed her frantic heart, had eased the worries that had filled her the night before. Perhaps they had not given a name to what they were to one another, but Ruth came to a decision that morning as they shuffled around one another in the shower. It did not matter what words they used - or didn't, as the case may be - she knew what he meant to her. He meant everything.

"We may have enough time to pick up a croissant from the cart," Harry was saying as he leaned in the bedroom doorway, knotting his tie while he watched her hopping from one foot to the other, tugging on her boots.

And it was not until that very moment that Ruth realized he intended for them to go into work together.

If he had made such an overture to her three years before, so blandly announced his attentions to bring her into work with him without even checking to see what her thoughts were on the matter, she might well have run a mile. Faced with the possibility of everyone they worked with, everyone whose opinion of her mattered discovering that she was shagging the boss the old Ruth would have panicked, and bolted for safety. Now, though, she took a moment to look at him, to try gauge his state of mind, and as she did she smiled. He probably hadn't even thought it through, poor man; he was smiling at her, that soft, besotted smile he reserved for her and her alone, and she knew in that moment that all he wanted was to stay by her side, not to make any grand declarations or stake his claim but to enjoy her company, just a little while longer.

And when he was looking so very handsome in his suit, his hair still slightly curly from the steam of the shower, that smile upon his face, Ruth's body still tingling, just a little, from his attentions, she knew she wanted the same. It was early still, and while a few people might be on the Grid, it was likely that only Ros or Lucas would take note of their arrival. And neither of those two would ever say a word about it, Ruth knew; likely they would not even bat an eyelid, would assume - rightfully so - that Ruth and Harry had been together all the while. What could it hurt, she asked herself, to stay with him, to avoid the perils of the tube at rush hour and instead cross the city in the comfort of Harry's chauffeur-driven car, stopping to pick up a croissant at the cart before leisurely walking into the office? What could it hurt, to be happy just a little while longer?

"That sounds nice," she said decisively.

They were mostly quiet, as they drove along. His driver, Mike, might well have been deaf as a post, for he had overheard all sorts of conversations from the backseat of that car, and never spoke a word about it. He knew Harry would have his head on a pike if he ever did, and apparently valued his job more than any reward he might possibly receive for airing his employer's dirty laundry.

There was a question Harry very much wanted to ask Ruth, however, and it was far more personal than discussions of terrorists or international coups in the intelligence community. He couldn't quite think of a good way to broach the subject, however, and so he let Ruth chatter on for a time, pondering his predicament while still trying to follow the thread of the conversation.

"It needs to be Ros on this one, Harry," Ruth was saying. "Lucas is too close to Sarah, and she's the one the Americans have chosen to represent their side. And besides, Baisley's skittish, he might respond better to two women."

Harry grunted. "He doesn't know our Ros very well then," he said. Ruth smiled at him softly, and on impulse he reached out and twined their fingers together, liking very much the way she let him bring their hands to rest against his thigh, the little blush that rose in her cheeks.

She was discussing their latest op, a joint attempt with the Americans to ferret out the names of terrorists and other unsavories who had stashed their cash in a massive, shady bank. Money laundering was not his area of expertise, but even Harry knew that more mob bosses were brought down by tax evasion than by murder charges. The HS had intimated that this particular endeavor was very important to him and had in fact arranged a meeting with Harry later that morning to discuss it, and so banks and Baisley had become the order of the hour.

"You're right, though," he agreed. "It should be Ros. I'll speak to her when we get in, see if she and Sarah can meet with Baisley today. The sooner the better."

Ruth hummed, eyes sparkling, and settled back into the seat beside him. She was always happiest, he'd found, when they were working together, when they were on the same page, finishing one another's sentences and anticipating one another's needs. They'd had quite a lot of practice at that, over the years, and the newfound intimacy between them had only served to strengthen those bonds.

"Two almond croissants, please," Harry said as he reached the front of the queue at the little cart by the water's edge.

"And a coffee," Ruth piped up beside him.

"And a coffee," he added. Ruth relayed her order to the man behind the cart and then stepped away, turning her face up to the morning sun and smiling, just a little, while Harry paid for their breakfast and then collected it.

"Do we have time to sit for a moment?" Ruth asked as she accepted the croissant and the coffee.

"For a moment," Harry agreed, and as one they turned and made their way to a little bench. They settled down together, sitting side by side; Ruth turned towards him, their knees brushing, her breakfast perched precariously on her lap while she took a long sip from her paper cup. And in that moment, her hair shining in the sunlight, her face content, her body warm and so close to his own, Harry could not stop himself from asking the question that had been plaguing him all morning.

"Would you like to have dinner with me one night?" he asked, the words spilling out of him all in a rush.

Ruth almost choked on her coffee. "I'm sorry?" she responded when she caught her breath.

Harry felt rather as if he had been somehow transported back through time, back to that rooftop, back to a moment of innocent, boundless hope, to the days before everything between them had grown so dark. They had secrets now that they had not carried then, griefs and fears that they had not spoken to one another, but they had come so bloody far, and things had been going so bloody well, and he could not help but hunger for more.

The expression on Ruth's face told him all too plainly that she had experienced the same sort of déjà vu, for her eyes went wide and then softened, slightly, as she watched him. In that moment she was warm and gentle and beautiful, lovelier today than she had been yesterday, and lovelier still than she had been three years earlier, an enigma, a vision, the dearest longing of his heart.

"If you'd like to, of course," he said, finishing their little scene.

"Harry," she started to speak, but he cut her off at once, prepared for her to protest, to decline, to turn from him and run.

"I have enjoyed every moment we've spent together, Ruth," he told her earnestly, "but I would like very much to take you somewhere that isn't work or home. We deserve some time, don't we, to just be...normal?"

"Nothing about you and I will ever be normal, Harry," she told him. His heart sank, but before he could be too disappointed she was moving, balancing her drink on the bench beside her so that she could reach out and take his hand in her own.

"But I'd love to have dinner. Together."

Her smile was gentle and knowing, and there was nothing for it then but for him to reach out and kiss her once, a fleeting caress but one he hoped might go a long way towards telling her just how much her acceptance meant to him.

"Good," he said, clearing his throat, taken aback somewhat by his own forwardness. "That's good."