A/N: This chapter is M rated.
Though his refusal to push their relationship forward had left Ruth feeling a bit disappointed and a bit embarrassed at her own eagerness, she had slipped into sleep rather quickly, exhausted after the events of the evening and comforted by Harry's warm, steady presence beside her. Perhaps he had been right, to call a halt to proceedings; they had not spoken to one another for months, and one anguished declaration of love and a few passionate kisses across the course of two days could not be expected to erase all the heartache they'd caused one another over eight long years. Perhaps, Ruth told herself as she drifted off into dreams, all they needed was a bit more time, to adjust to the change in circumstances between them. They could make this work, with a bit of a time, a bit of effort, a few more delirious embraces. There was no need to rush.
Ruth had not been asleep very long, no more than an hour or two, when she awoke with a start, her heart pounding and her breath coming in short gasps. For a moment she lay still as a board, dispelling the fog of sleep and struggling to orient herself. The world outside her bedroom window was dark, and the grittiness behind her eyelids told her it was not yet time to rise and greet the coming of a new day. She found herself drawn out of the haze of sleep and into reality as a diver emerging from deep water, everything around her slowly coming into focus, every detail brightening with each passing second until all at once she found she understood precisely where she was and how she had come to be there.
Beside her, Harry was snoring. That was what had woken her, the incessant, rumbling sound of his snoring as he lay beside her. He was flat on his back, his face turned towards her in sleep; for her part Ruth had curled around him while she slept, and she was somewhat mortified to discover that she had rolled onto his arm in her sleepy haste to draw close to him, trapping it beneath her as she rested with her head on his shoulder, her legs wrapped around his thigh beneath the duvet. It would seem that Harry was untroubled by her unconscious affections, though she knew that if she spent the whole night sleeping on his arm he'd not thank her for it in the morning. The sound emerged from deep in the back of his throat once more, rumbling in a way that brought to mind a train barreling down the tracks. As content as he seemed to be in this moment, Ruth knew she would get no more sleep tonight if they carried on in this fashion.
Which left her with the rather unpleasant task of disentangling herself from him, and finding some way to abate the steady stream of gargling sounds emanating from her almost-lover.
Carefully she shifted, drawing her legs away from him first, assuming a much more demure posture before lifting herself up on one elbow, taking her weight off his arm and leaning over him, her face close to his in the darkness. He really was lovely, her Harry; she did not often have the opportunity to examine him at repose, as peaceful as he looked just now, and she greedily drank in the sight of him, his pale eyelashes fanned across his cheeks, the fine lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth smooth and untroubled as he rested, his full lips parted slightly -
Those full lips let loose another loud, rather undignified sound and Ruth had to fight hard to keep her own giggles at bay. Harry snored! Who would have thought, she wondered winsomely as she watched him, the experience of sleeping beside him still new and enchanting enough to ward off any ungracious feelings she might have been harboring at having been awoken so abruptly. This was something she had not known about him, only a few hours before. This was one of those things, those personal, private things that only she was privy to now, and though it was a bit annoying, she was ridiculously pleased at having discovered it. If asked, she might even have gone so far as to describe his snuffling little sounds as adorable, though she knew Harry would not appreciate such a descriptor being applied to him.
Yet another snore escaped him, and Ruth, having finally managed to rein in her delight at having him there beside her, at seeing him so relaxed and off-guard, set about waking him, and helping them both enjoy what little sleep they could before the sun rose.
"Harry," she murmured as she leaned over him, unable to resist the temptation to brush her lips against his cheek. Perhaps she'd spoken too softly; he did not stir. And so she tried again.
"Harry," she repeated, a bit louder this time. Beneath her Harry shifted slightly, his eyelids fluttering, a soft, dreamy sigh escaping his lips. She waited, but he did not move again, and after a moment another loud snore came rumbling out of him.
Feeling a bit exasperated now, Ruth let loose a sigh of her own. "Oh for goodness sake," she muttered. "Harry!" She gave his shoulder a little shake for emphasis.
He jolted awake, his eyes flying open and focusing at once on her face, his arms rising and falling in an instinctive attempt to protect himself before his mind caught up with his surroundings.
"Ruth?" he asked, his voice soft and uncertain, his eyes wary but alert. She marveled at that briefly, at how he could so quickly shift from sleep to vigilance. It was a skill he had honed through the years, she supposed, a result of his dangerous and sometimes violent work.
"It's all right," she told him soothingly, brushing her hand across his chest. "You were snoring."
"Oh," he said, reaching up to rub the sleep from his eyes. " Right. I've been told I do that."
By whom? Ruth wondered, suddenly intensely curious, intensely jealous, overcome by an unexpected wave of possessiveness. Harry was hers, and she did not like the thought that there might be others out there in the world who shared in the secrets she now knew about him. There must be, she knew, women who had shared his bed, who had sampled his prowess, the heat of his body that Ruth had so far only dreamed about, but it was one thing to know that those women existed, and another thing entirely for Harry to mention them to her while he was lying in her bed.
"I'm sorry I woke you," he said contritely, drawing her attention back to him once more. Yes, there had been others, but that jealousy faded, as she gazed down at him. Whoever had come before, he was with her now, intent and focused on her, relaxed and content in her bed, as she had wanted him to be for so very long. Beneath her he shifted, rolling onto his side, and Ruth followed his lead, sliding back down beneath the duvet and turning her back on him, preparing herself to try to sleep once more.
Perhaps he was still half-asleep, or perhaps the darkness had made him bold, or perhaps he simply wanted to; whatever the reason, Harry rolled towards her, wrapping one strong arm around her waist and drawing her flush against him so that her spine nestled against the hard plane of his chest, curving his body around her, his warmth delicious and infectious. Ruth sighed in bliss, unable to contain her joy at having him near, and lifted one hand, running it across his forearm, feeling the play of his muscles beneath her fingertips, the softness of the fine blonde hair scattered across his skin. He was warm and real and here, in her bed, with her, and Ruth was overcome with joy in that moment.
Harry hummed softly at her touch; he leaned forward, brushing her hair aside with his nose so that he could plant a gentle kiss on the back of her neck. That one touch was all it took, to transport her back to his kitchen, to the feel of his hands tracing the contours of her body, the delirious want he had awoken inside her, and though his kiss had been tender, Ruth found her heart beating faster, her breathing shallower, want and need churning deep within her. It was dark, and they still had time, yet, time to be together, alone, away from the world, sheltered here in the peaceful quiet of her bedroom. Maybe this could be their time, she thought, dragging her fingertips across his hand where it rested against her stomach, tracing the outline of his fingers and thinking all sort of untoward thoughts about his hands, and the pleasure they had promised her only a few hours before.
"Ruth," he whispered her name, drawing her further back against him. Perhaps he had felt the tension in her, and discerned its cause. Perhaps his thoughts had drifted back to the kitchen as well, and he could no more deny himself than Ruth could deny her own longing for him. Whatever the reason, the gentle pressure of his hand drew her back until she could feel his hardness nestled against her bottom, not demanding or insisting but simply suggesting, offering, waiting for her to accept or deny him as she chose.
Taking a deep breath to calm her stuttering heart Ruth flattened her palm against the back of Harry's hand and carefully guided him up and up until he was once more cradling her breast, and in the process she pressed back against him, telling him in no uncertain terms that she was as willing a participant as he. This is our time, she thought as with her encouragement Harry's fingertips set a course for her nipple, drawing careful circles around it and leaving her shivering and hopeful and ablaze with desire. He kissed her again, his lips tracing the lines of her neck even as he ground forward against her, making no attempt to hide his obvious arousal from her. He must have woken hard and aching for her, just as she had woken consumed by thoughts of him, yearning for his touch, and nothing else made sense in that moment but that they should given into this need they both felt, and sate their weary souls.
No longer content with having her back towards him Ruth rolled in his arms; Harry shifted above her, making room for her to nestle her body beneath his own. It was his turn to stare down at her in wonder, hunger in his gaze as his raked eyes over her, leaving her feeling as exposed as if she were lying beneath him naked, and not covered from head to foot in her favorite faded pajamas. The soft fabric of her shirt could not hide her nipples, hard and standing to attention and begging for his touch, could not hide her trembling, her gasping breaths; this man who knew her so well could no doubt read her want with a single glance, and that thought was as confronting as it was comforting. He smiled at her softly before he bowed his head to kiss her, capturing her lips with his own; such was the heat, the fire of his kiss, the sheer delight it inspired in her, that Ruth moved beneath him all unthinking, raising her legs to lock around his waist, drawing him down against her so that his hardness nudged against her center, drawing whimpers of delight from both of them.
This was more what she'd had in mind, when they'd gone to bed earlier in the evening; they were sleepy and somewhat frightened, all too aware of the circumstances that had led them back to her flat, but they were together, and for however brief a time they forgot their troubles, their long separation and bitter words and the rain of bullets that had nearly killed them both. They were still alive, still breathing, their hearts still pounding frantically within their chests, and nothing else made sense but they should love one another, now, while they could, while the stars danced outside her bedroom window and their demons reclined in the shadows. For however brief a time they could banish their fears, could build for themselves a moment of peace, of joy, of surrender, protected by the quiet, steadfast love they harbored one for the other.
Harry shifted his weight back, freeing his hands and drawing away from her so that he could reach between them, his fingertips dancing across her skin beneath her soft gray pajama top. There was a question in his eyes, an uncertainty that Ruth answered with her own conviction, reaching down to wrap her hands around his wrists, encouraging him to continue what he'd started. Assured of her permission, her willingness to see how far this thing between them might be allowed to go, Harry divested her of her shirt; before he could begin his ravishing of her Ruth pressed her hands against his chest, gathering the fabric of his shirt in her fingertips. Harry understood, as he always did, without need of words, and removed his shirt himself, so that they lay together, gasping and half naked and tangled together in her bed.
"That's more like it," Ruth breathed, but even as she spoke Harry leaned forward onto his hands, kissing her once more, his tongue invading her mouth and drawing a soft, mewling sound of want from deep in the back of her throat. She wrapped her hands around his forearms, bracing herself even as she ground up against him once more, lost in sensation and her body's demand for release, for salvation. Slowly, ever so slowly Harry dragged his lips away from her mouth, ghosting down her neck, over the sharp rise of her collarbones, heading for the smooth swell of her breasts, and for her part Ruth only clung to him, desperate for some piece of something real to tether her to this moment, to remind her that this was not a dream. Harry was here, in her bed, where she had for so long wanted him to be, and she was determined to enjoy every moment of it.
He could not get enough of her. Could not get enough of the sounds she made, the movement of her hips beneath him, the salty taste of her skin beneath his lips. She was transcendent, his Ruth, glorious in her abandon, a goddess sheltered within the circle of his arms. He had divested them both of their clothing and rolled her once more beneath him, his lips intent on mapping out every exquisite inch of her breasts, his fingers delving deep within the warmth and wet between her thighs, and with every move of his body Ruth countered with a graceful, supple movement of her own, writhing beneath him in a carnal dance that drove him almost mad with want of her. It had taken them so long, so bloody long to reach this point, and if he could have spared a moment to think he would have marveled at that, at Ruth lying beneath him with her legs wrapped around his waist all but begging him to take her while outside her door two agents watched and waited, searching for some sign of the madman who had tried to kill them. Never, in all his imaginings, had he thought they would ever come together like this, that Ruth would so easily set aside her fears, her private doubts, and embrace her love of him so fully. Perhaps it was not easy for her; no doubt Ruth had struggled through the labyrinthine quagmire of her own thoughts, traced a path of intellectual debate that would have left him reeling, before she came to the conclusion that they should no longer hold one another at arm's length. She was a consummate analyst, his Ruth, and though he could not begin to understand the way her mind worked he was desperately grateful that she had reached this conclusion, that she had given herself over so wholly to their love of one another.
This would not be the last time, he told himself as once more he thrust his fingers inside her and once more her eyelashes fluttered across her cheeks, a sharp, heady sound escaping her, her fingers digging in hard to his biceps where she gripped him like a vice. This would be the first of many, and as such, he was determined to make it memorable, but almost completely incapable of waiting another moment to sheath himself inside her. I'll have to make it up to her, he thought decisively, even as he withdrew his hand from between her thighs, her hips rising up to follow him, desperate for more.
He snaked one hand beneath her, clutching the smooth swell of her buttocks, holding her up, as with the other he guided himself between her legs, stroking his hardness along the length of her folds and drawing a gasp from her once more.
"Harry," she breathed, and even as she spoke he thrust himself inside her, just a bit, trying to mindful of her comfort even as he sought his own release within the warmth and wet of her.
He leaned over her, one hand pressed flat to the mattress by her head, holding himself up as he thrust into her once again. Beneath him she whimpered, her legs locking tight around his waist, holding him close, her hips moving in time to his own. It should not have surprised him, that they worked so well together, that they had fallen into a synchronicity he had never before experienced the moment she first turned to face him. After everything they had endured together they knew one another inside and out, could each predict the thoughts, the wants, the needs of the other with an ease borne of practice, and it stood to reason that that innate understanding would translate itself quite easily to the bedroom. It helped, of course, that she was a beautiful woman and he had been dreaming of making love to her for years on end. He had gone over and over every second of their coupling in his mind a thousand times in the past, lying cold and lonely and dreaming of her in his empty bed. This performance was the end result of a thousand rehearsals, and if the way Ruth was trembling beneath him was anything to go by, she had been looking forward to just as much as he.
He kissed her once, because he could, because her full lips were parted and gasping and so close to his own, and then he gave himself over to the siren song of her body, pounding into her relentlessly, building her up and up until with each powerful thrust of his body she was panting and whimpering beneath him, until the desperate bucking of her hips beneath him stuttered, and her inner walls clamped down upon him like a vice, drawing him in deeper and deeper until they shattered together, groaning and moaning and enraptured. He emptied himself inside her, unwilling to draw back from the quivering of her sex around her, unable to move thanks to the grip of her legs around his waist. Her thighs held him, cradled him, refused to let him go, and he sank down against her, his head pillowed on her breast, his breaths sharp and short, and the only thought that broke through the haze of his euphoria was I love you. He may have spoken out loud, or may have whispered it to her somewhere deep inside his mind; he could not be sure, and he did not care.
"What do you think they're doing in there?" Marks asked over the coms. Porter was parked at one end of the street, Marks at the other, each with a clear line of sight to the house, each alert, but terribly bored. Ruth Evershed lived on a quiet street, and they had not seen so much as a stray cat, let alone a mad gunmen to relieve the tedium of their night's watch. Even so, Marks's question was in poor taste.
"Sleeping, most like," Porter told him gruffly. It was just unprofessional, to make such an inquiry, and he rather hoped that Marks would take the hint, would spare him having to deliver a sharp rebuke. They were a team, and they needed to act like it, unified in all things in order to keep Sir Harry and Ruth Evershed out of danger. There was no time for idle gossip.
Through his ear piece he heard Marks hum in a slightly dissatisfied way, but to his relief his partner did not broach the subject of Sir Harry's nocturnal activities again.
Porter had heard rather a lot, over the years, about Sir Harry and Ruth and the tangled web of their relationship. Though the pair had been enjoying a quiet dinner when they were attacked, though they had adjourned to her flat together, Porter couldn't quite bring himself to believe there was anything untoward between them. After all, if the woman hadn't thrown herself into his arms after the Albany fiasco, Porter supposed there was nothing Sir Harry could do to make her love him. If that hadn't impressed her, nothing would. They were just friends, he was almost certain.
Harry had fallen to sleep almost at once, whispering softly I love you before his eyes closed and he gave himself over to dreams. He had fallen asleep on his stomach, and Ruth hoped that would be sufficient to put an end to the rumbling of his snores for the evening. As soon as her own breathing had returned to normal she shuffled herself off to the loo, catching a glimpse of the clock as she walked by. It was nearly 3:00 a.m.; there was still time for her to get some rest, before they had to be dressed and pressed and ready to face the Russians. She took the time to tidy herself up a bit, unable to keep the smile from her face. They had done it, somehow. They had come through fire and calamity, through grief and rage and loss, and found their way to one another. Harry had rocked her to her very core, had left her tingling and aching in a delicious sort of way, had loved her with everything he had, had imprinted the memory of his powerful body along every inch of her skin. In a way they had always belonged to one another, had always belonged together, Ruth and Harry, two sides of the same coin, but now it seemed they had forged a new bond, had drawn closer than she had ever imagined was possible. There would be talk, tomorrow, and tribulations to come, but for now her heart was singing, and she was too overcome with joy to be troubled with tomorrow's worries. The night was not over yet, and she was determined to enjoy this. With that smile she could not shake she made her way back to bed, sliding beneath Harry's arm and settling herself down to sleep once more.