He keeps telling himself that this is not a date, that he has no reason to be nervous, that she's not expecting anything from him except a pleasant evening between friends, but his heart doesn't want to listen. He's got a lot riding on the success of this dinner, more so than ever before, including the last time they did this. He knows how much he needs her now, how hard life is without Ruth in it, how truly alone he feels without her presence, without her kindness, her guidance, her affection, and – dare he hope? – her love.
His meeting with the DG had run late, which is making him more anxious still for, though he'd taken the opportunity to send her a text letting her know he'll be a little late when the DG's PA had interrupted to deliver an urgent message, he can't help worrying that she'll have left already. Somehow he's convinced himself that George never kept her waiting though he knows that, as a doctor, he must have been on call sometimes and, therefore, called away from her side at least once during their time together. He lived with her after all – the lucky bastard.
He rubs his forehead absently, wondering how he can possibly compete with someone like him, doubting himself and what he has to offer her. A good man, she'd called him. A moral man. Honest. Tall, dark, and handsome. A doctor. Someone who saves lives and lives in the light, not someone who takes them and moves through the shadows like him.
Stop this, he tells himself sternly.
He has a lot in common with Ruth. She likes him, she's fond of him, and she's a spy too. She likes the shadows. She'd hidden her real identity from George, hadn't she? Hidden her past, her real name, all or part of who she really is – her loves, her passions, her fears, her pain. She's as secretive as he is and she inhabits the same murky world as he. He sees her as a spark of light in the otherwise dark, dark world that surrounds him, but she chooses to dwell in that world with him day in and day out. She's good, and she's kind, and she's beautiful, but she's strong and brave and determined too. She's not afraid to get her hands dirty, to stand on the wall beside him, face humanity's worst nightmares, and sacrifice herself for the grater good. She's the perfect mate for him really, and he'll be damned if he'll not give it his all to make her see that he can be perfect for her too. Tonight is just the beginning and he's in it for the long-haul.
Never, never, never give up. It's never over.
As he exits the car in front of a pub two blocks from his final destination and dismisses his driver for the night, he's feeling much better – confident and sure of himself once more. He slips into the pub and makes his way through the Friday night throngs to the back, where he slips out again into a back alley that comes out on the next street. From here, he walks another two blocks, and confident he's not being followed, he doubles back to the restaurant where he's meeting Ruth.
He spots her at the bar, a glass of white wine in her hand, her legs crossed to expose knee-length, black, leather boots under her dark blue dress, something he's sure she wasn't wearing earlier on the Grid. He's sure she wasn't wearing that dress either, and for a moment, his body floods with want as his eyes slowly, appreciatively travel up the length of her and he has to swallow hard to get it back under control again before he can join her, murmuring his intention to the hostess before closing the distance between them.
She spots him half way to his destination and smiles, setting down her glass and swivelling to face him, uncrossing her legs and smoothing down her dress self-consciously, perhaps as nervous as he.
"Hi," she says, when he stops before her.
"Hello," he replies. "Sorry I'm so late."
"It's alright," she reassures him. "I know what it's like. I think they might have given away our table though."
He frowns, glancing at his watch to see that he's almost an hour late. He sighs. "I'll sort it out." She moves to rise, but he stops her with a hand on hers. "Finish your drink. I'll be right back."
She smiles. "Okay," she says, and as he walks away again, he's sure her eyes are following his progress, perhaps checking him out as he had her a moment ago. The thought sends a shiver up his spine and makes him square his shoulders, his stride more confident and sure.
He talks to the hostess and then the manager, and in the end, he secures a table though he's not at all convinced that it'll meet with Ruth's approval, and it's with renewed apprehension that he makes his way back to her side.
"Any luck?" she asks, smiling at him.
"They have a couple of private rooms with tables in a more... intimate setting," he replies, watching her reaction closely. "They're willing to let us have one, but it's up to you, Ruth. If you'd rather, we can look for somewhere else to-"
"No, no. It's fine," she says quickly.
"Are you sure?"
"Yes." She smiles at him, then gives him a mischievous look. "I'm not sure I can wait until we find another place. I'm famished."
He chuckles, the tension leaving him and allowing him to breathe freely again. "Then shall we?" he asks. He offers her his hand to help her down from the high bar stool, the frisson that runs through him at her touch and smile making his heart race despite his mind cautioning him against getting his hopes up. It is clear to him that Ruth is not averse to his company and that she is more at ease around him than ever before, but it is not, as yet, clear why. Is it because she still loves him and her grief over George is subsiding enough to leave room for those feelings to surface again, or is it because she no longer does, never will again, and there is only hope of friendship between them? He very much hopes that it's the former, but he's determined to be satisfied with the latter too. After everything he's done, Ruth's friendship is more than he deserves, he's sure, and of infinite value to him. He would rather have that than nothing at all, and besides, a solid friendship is the best foundation for something more, however long he has to wait for it.
Never give up.
He picks up her coat from the chair beside her and follows her as she crosses to the hostess who leads them through to the back of the restaurant and into a smallish room with dim lighting and bright candles on a small table set for two. He's been in here before with other women, but never has he felt as nervous and hopeful as he does right now.
He watches Ruth look around, eyes sparkling in the half-light, her expression convincing him that this experience is new to her. He turns aside to hang up her coat and remove his own, hanging it beside hers, not wanting her to see the triumphant look in his eyes or the smirk of satisfaction that he's finding hard to hide at the knowledge that George clearly never treated her to a romantic dinner like this. It doesn't matter that this isn't supposed to be romantic and that he cannot treat it as such, nor Ruth as a prospective lover. It is enough to know, in this moment, that it's one – nil to him.
When he turns to face her once more, she's taking the seat the waiter is holding out for her, and though he momentarily wishes he'd been the one to do that, he silently acknowledges that it would have been a mistake. He needs to keep things light. There will be more opportunities to have dinner with Ruth he hopes, and with any luck, some will be proper romantic ones too.
He takes his seat and the menu the waiter hands him. "And here is the wine list," he says, holding out the card expectantly, but before he can reach for it, Ruth has taken it from his hand.
"I'll choose the wine while you choose what you're going to eat," she says. "I already know what I'm having."
He nods, opening the menu to have a look, feeling a pang of guilt for keeping her waiting. It's been a while since last he was here, and though he thinks he knows what he wants, he'd like to double check that there's nothing else that appeals more.
"Can we have a bottle of this one, please?" he hears her say, and glancing up, he can see her pointing at the wine list. He frowns. She's fluent in so many languages that it surprises him she's not simply reading out the name of the wine.
"You mean the-" the waiter begins, but she interrupts him.
"Yes," she says quickly, catching the waiter's eye.
"Of course."
"And I'd like the Salmon please."
"And I'll have the Pheasant," he says decisively, suddenly wanting the young man gone.
"Both excellent choices," he replies, then seeing the look Harry gives him, he quickly gathers up the menus and leaves them alone.
She shifts in her chair and looks around again, before her eyes return to his once more and she gives him a small, tentative smile. "It's nice here," she says.
He nods. "The food is good too."
"You come here often." It's a statement, not a question, and he watches as she drops her eyes from his, fiddling with her napkin, a warmth spreading over his heart and through his body at her reaction. Is she jealous at the thought of him dining here with other women?
"Not really," he replies, watching as she lifts her eyes to his again, their colour dark in the dim light. "I've not been here in years."
She smiles and nods before dropping her eyes again to the napkin that she's busy folding and unfolding with her fingers. She did this last time they had dinner too, and it makes his heart swell with hope and simultaneously ache with sadness for all that had been lost.
"You look lovely tonight," he says, caught up in the memory and his regrets, forgetting for a moment that he's promised himself not to cross any lines this evening, however sorely he is tempted. He'd had such hopes for them back then and they had all come to nothing. He mustn't make the same mistake again. He will be content with what she is willing to give him. He must not ask for more... at least, not yet. He must give her time.
Her fingers still and she freezes for a moment before lifting her eyes back to his, a smile hovering around the corners of her mouth as she says, "Thank you," and lets her eyes drop to scan his chest, taking in his somewhat rumpled white shirt and tie.
"I didn't have time to change," he explains, feeling a little self-conscious.
"No," she agrees. She tilts her head to the side and he watches with fascination as a smile spreads slowly across her lips.
"What?" he asks, a little apprehensively.
She hesitates before she answers. "Next time we do this, we're having a picnic at the beach. I'm dying to see what casual, relaxed Harry Pearce looks like."
He clears his throat, her words catching him by surprise, smoothing his tie down with his left hand and shifting in his seat before he manages to regain his equilibrium. Playfulness is not something he'd expected from her tonight and he's not quite sure how to respond to it without crossing any lines. "It's the middle of December, Ruth. Hardly the best time for a picnic."
"I don't know. I'm from Devon. We swim in the sea at Christmas."
He chuckles. "Do you really?"
"Yes. Haven't you ever heard of the Christmas day swim?"
"I have. I just never realised you'd taken part."
"Oh I used to do it ever year up until I left home." She smiles. "The atmosphere is always great and the dip in the freezing water invigorating. You should try it sometime."
"Thanks, but I think I'll pass." He smiles at her, pleased that she's shared another little piece of herself with him and a little impressed if he's honest.
"Londoners," she replies. "Soft. No courage. No sense of adventure at all." Her eyes are twinkling at him as she teases and it makes her look so young suddenly and so beautiful, so much like the woman she used to be when she first joined Section D and he'd thought her weak, naive, and unlikely to last the month. He couldn't have been more wrong about her and he still doesn't know how he missed it – the steel, the strength, the determination and courage at her core.
"I'm from Reading," he says, dryly.
"Same difference." She grins at him then adds, "Just a picnic then."
He lifts his eyebrows, then suddenly leans forward, unable to resist the temptation any more as he reaches for his tie and pulls it loose, watching with satisfaction as her eyes drop to watch what he's doing. If teasing is what she wants, teasing is what she'll get, he thinks, the sight of her tongue darting out to moisten her lips as he pulls the tie free and undoes a couple of buttons causing his insides to do a little flip and his stomach muscles to tighten. "I tell you what," he murmurs, his voice involuntarily dropping an octave, "we'll save the picnic for the spring and I'll just... make myself a little more comfortable, shall I?" He pauses, slowly wrapping his tie round his hand and pushing it into his pocket before he removes his cuff-links and begins rolling up his shirtsleeves, all the while watching her face, his heart pounding with the realisation that she wants him.
"Here we are," their waiter states as he slips into the room again, carrying a tray with a wine bottle and a jug of water. "Your wine."
For a moment, he wants to pull his tie back out of his pocket and strangle him for his timing, but it only takes him a moment more to realise that it's probably just as well he's made an appearance just now. As thrilling as his discovery is, it's far too soon to be acting on it. She'd wanted him before her exile too, but that hadn't stopped her from ending it too soon between them. In fact, he suspects that perhaps it scares her – the physical attraction between them. He's no idea why it would, whether there is something in her past, some trauma that makes intimacy hard for her. The thought that she might have suffered at the hands of another man makes his heart ache for her and the bile rise in his throat, and he knows that if he ever discovers the identity of this man – if he really exists – he'll be hard pressed not to take matters into his own hands and make him pay dearly for having hurt her. The knowledge though that she shared her life with George – as well as filling his heart with pain and a jealousy so strong it leaves him breathless – makes him realise that it is possible to gain her trust and get her permission to love her fully, in every way he's ever dreamt of, and for that, he's eternally grateful.
A quick glance at her reveals that she's dropped her gaze again, her cheeks flushed, her hands out of sight in her lap, so he turns his attention back to the waiter, accepting the glass he offers him to taste the wine. It's good and vaguely familiar, but he's not really much of a connoisseur of wine – unlike whisky – so he merely nods to the waiter, who fills their glasses and slips out of the room once more with an assurance that their meals will be ready shortly.
Once he's gone, he reaches for the bottle, rotating it to see the label. He recognises it instantly as the same one they'd shared on their date last time – different vintage but the same producer – White Burgundy. He freezes, his heart all but stopping then suddenly pounding, his breaths shallow and rapid as he lowers his arm and his eyes dart to her face. She's watching him, cheeks still slightly flushed, eyes so blue and beautiful.
"Ruth?" he whispers, certain of the message she's trying to convey, yet scared to trust it without a verbal confirmation from her.
"I... er..." she begins, then clears her throat before she looks down, smooths her dress, and tries again. "I thought perhaps we could..." She pauses, lifting her eyes to his, her gaze soft and hopeful. "Start again. Not... I mean, I know we can't go back and it won't be exactly the same, but... I wanted to make it clear that I still... I want... us." She drops her gaze for a moment before lifting it to his again. "Assuming I haven't misread the signs, that is, and this is what you want too..."
This is everything he's wanted, everything he's hoped for for so long that the emotions are utterly overwhelming and he can barely think at all, let alone formulate a reply. And perhaps that is the reason why the first thing that comes out of his mouth once he's found his voice is, "And George?"
She drops her gaze immediately, but not fast enough for him to miss the pain that fills her eyes and he can't help berating himself for his weakness. This is exactly what he'd done to her last time too, in the warehouse. "Sorry," he says quickly, "that wasn't-"
"No," she interrupts. "It's fine, Harry. I'd probably be asking the same question if..." She tails off, shaking her head at herself before lifting her eyes to his again and smiling tentatively.
He nods, relieved she's not angry, but regretting asking the question as he waits with bated breath for her next words.
She takes a sip of her wine. "You asked me before if I loved him," she says, her fingers tracing around the base of her wine glass, her eyes absorbed in watching them. He watches her, his heart sinking to his knees as he tries to tell himself that her feelings for George do not matter. The man is dead, but his shadow looms large between them and he can't help feeling that, in choosing him now, Ruth is settling for him and, had George lived, she would have returned to Cyprus with him and he'd never have seen her again.
"I did," she admits quietly. "He was a good, kind man – thoughtful, considerate, funny, generous, loving. It wasn't hard to love him. It was simple. Life was simple-"
"And elegant," he finishes for her, desperately trying to show some understanding, to hide the pain piercing his heart.
Her eyes lift to his and she returns his half-smile, her gaze warm and grateful, but he's sure he's not fooling her at all – she can see straight through him.
"The thing is, Harry," she adds, pulling her hand from the wine glass and reaching across the table to cover his, leaning towards him, "I never fell in love with George. He courted me and it suited my purpose at the time to let him. He was a good man, pleasant and honest, and he gave me refuge. With time I came to love him, but it's not the same thing."
He remembers how his love for Jane had changed with time and how stupid he'd been back then not to embrace that change and nurture that love instead of chasing the temporary thrill, the rush of sexual attraction, of falling in love again. Perhaps the way she loved George is better, more healthy, he finds himself thinking as he drops his gaze from hers to her hand, resting on top of his own. Perhaps with time, she can come to love him too, more than she loved the doctor.
"I thought of you everyday," she confesses softly, her voice a little unsteady now, and when he lifts his eyes to hers, he can see the pain and the love in their depths, and he knows that she never stopped caring, never stopped loving him.
He feels a great weight lift off his heart at this realisation and moves his hands, turning the one she's holding over and covering the back of her hand with the other so that it's trapped between both of his. "So did I," he murmurs gruffly.