A/N – Because I can't help myself, this chapter might at some point veer into M territory. As always, many thanks for following along.

It was as if time had stood still, the contents of the room trapped in the rarefied air of a museum, not even a mote of dust had stirred. Ruth frowned; in reality, it had not been centuries since she had last sat in the examination room; it had only been a few days. Of course, nothing would have changed in such a short amount of time; she was the one who was different. She scanned the room, looking for something to occupy her anxious mind. The anatomical model of the human heart still stood resolutely on the desk, slightly tilted off its axis, a chamber door hanging ajar from where Harry had hit it. She wondered if she should go over and fix it. No, she wasn't very good at handling hearts. Finding no distraction, she swung her legs nervously, the cheap paper covering the table crinkling beneath her. There was no clock to tell her how long she had been waiting. They had taken her mobile, her coat, even the gloves. She tried to console herself at the loss of the gloves; they had been far too rich for her anyway. She placed her hand on her shoulder and cricked her neck, a dull ache throbbing in the muscles from where a body had rammed into her. She winced when her finger touched a tender spot, the beginnings of a bruise. The back of her head was still sore, and her forearm was covered with a rash of abrasions. A wad of cotton sat in the crook of her other arm, and she gently pressed against the plaster, wondering if the blood had stopped. Random images played in her mind and she tried to piece together what had happened in the hotel room. Voices had faded in and out, like sounds through water, leaving her with a vague impression of CO19. She had been picked up like a rag doll and wrapped in a blanket, hustled by people in orange suits down to a waiting ambulance. She had not seen anyone from the team, including Harry. If the results from her blood work were positive, she may never see anyone again. She would be quarantined, banished to live out the rest of her days under a plastic tent. Sores, pain, alone. She took a deep breath.

The sounds of a heated conversation filtered through the door, the words indistinguishable. Were they talking about her? The door opened, and she sat up with a start. Harry entered, tie askew, mobile in hand, a look of consternation on his face. She sighed with relief at the sight of him, her shoulders releasing a tension that she did not know she was carrying. He stopped short when he saw her. She probably looked a wreck; hair in disarray, a rip in her skirt. He roamed over her with an assessing eye before he spoke.

"How are you?"

"As well as can be expected."

"They're running tests."

She nodded. He glanced down at his mobile and then rolled his eyes in frustration, remembering that there was no reception so far into the bowels of the hospital.

"Should you be in here?" she asked hesitantly, not wanting to drive him away, but not wanting him to be at risk either.

"We don't have to worry yet."

His eyes gravitated to her bandaged arm, and she self-consciously covered it with her hand. If they didn't see the problem, it didn't exist.

"What's happening with Lamott?" Strange, that she should still feel a sense of responsibility toward the man.

"He's in isolation. They all are. Otero is recovering from a bullet wound and Morgenstern is in custody. If it's any conciliation, you were right."

She gave him a weak smile, but her mouth quickly fell into a grim line.

"He played me, Harry."

"He played us all," he consoled her, taking a step closer to the table.

"But you had a suspicion. You had a sharpshooter trained on his room."

"He was trained on all their rooms. It was a contingency plan."

"I saw the laser." She crossed her arms over her body and subtly rocked on the table.

"You weren't in any danger." He moved up to the table and leant against it, his hand stirring slightly in a half-gesture of comfort.

She gave a sharp laugh, remembering how close the needle had come to her arm, the vial near her face. She wanted to ask if he had known beforehand that she was walking into danger in that room, but thought the better of it. She was afraid of the answer. The question must have played across her face; he spoke as if answering her thoughts.

"We didn't know what was happening. Luckily, you had the presence of mind to drop your comms device on the floor."

"Did you hear everything?"

He nodded. She had said that she owed nothing to the Service. They had taken her husband and son. Words said in the fear of the moment, but holding within them an underlying truth.

"You never trusted him, did you?" she steered the conversation back to Lamott.

"He was a man, subject to human failings. I suspected they might get to him." He gave her a level look, lowering his voice. "I know how hard it is to resist temptation."

Unable to meet his gaze, she focused on her hands.

"They've taken the gloves away. I'm sorry."

"There's no need to be sorry. They were supposed to protect you. And hopefully, they did."

"They were very nice." She ran her thumb over her hand, remembering the feel of the leather. "Thank you."

"I'll get you another pair."

"Oh, no, I wasn't hinting." She looked up at to find that he had inched closer to her. "You don't have to -"

"It doesn't have to mean anything this time."

She blinked at him, letting his words hang between them for a few seconds.

"Did it mean something before?" she asked quietly.

There was a knock on the door, and Harry quickly stepped away from the table. They both turned, composing themselves, doing their best to give the impression that nothing untoward had happened. It was the same nurse that had inoculated them a few days earlier.

"Oh, good, someone is here for you." She nodded at Harry and then turned to Ruth. "Looks like you're all clear."

"What?" Ruth stared at her, dumbfounded, hardly believe the words. "How did you get the results so soon?"

"Apparently, you've got friends in high places."

Harry shuffled his feet.

"But as with before," the nurse continued, "If you experience any kind of symptoms get back here double quick." She took out a penlight. "Let me have another look before you go." She shone the light in Ruth's eyes. "We're not going to rule out a concussion. Is there anyone to stay with you tonight?

"I have a roommate," Ruth answered.

The nurse looked from Ruth to Harry and then back again, obviously trying to puzzle out their relationship. "That's good." She slipped the light back in her pocket. "Well then, stay out of trouble."

The nurse left the room, leaving them to carry on with their lives. Ruth breathed a fluttering sigh of relief, a smile tugging at her lips. A reprieve. She must use it wisely.

"Shall we get out of here?" Harry prompted.

"Yes," she emphatically replied, pausing as she was struck by a thought. "My things are still at the hotel."

"I'll take you there."

"I can find a car." She slid off the table, the paper ripping in her wake. "Is it warm out? I have no coat."

Without hesitation, he took off his suit jacket and handed it to her.

"You don't have to-"

"Stop being so bloody stubborn and let me look after you."

She looked at him in surprise. She took the jacket from him and slipped it around her shoulders. He motioned for her to go before him and they left the room.

They drove to the hotel in silence, the sun flashing through buildings as it followed their progress. Eyes closed, relaxed against the headrest, she sank into the warmth of Harry's coat. The mixture of scents unique to him lingered on the collar and she inhaled deeply. Eventually, she would have to hand it back to him and they would resume their mutually agreed upon professional distance, but until then she would let the material of the man, if not the man himself, enfold her. The silence stayed with them as they ascended in the lift and walked along the hallway to her room. They were so very good at ignoring things. Reaching her door, they stood for a moment in a strange cloud of indecision.

"I don't have a key," she remembered.

Harry reached into his pocket and pulled out his card. He swiped it through the sensor and the lock clicked open. They both looked down at the thin piece of plastic, the embodiment of temptation. They had resisted it their entire stay at the hotel. The air was heavy with expectation and a bubble of panic rose in her throat. She had no idea how to deal with it. Avoidance came to mind.

"Could I have a moment to freshen up?"

"Of course." He stepped away. "I've got to pack my kit and check in with Tariq."

The sun sat low on the horizon, the last rays of the day filtering into her room. Crossing to the window, she looked out over the city, the clouds reflecting pink and blue. How could ugliness ever exist in such a world? Reluctantly, she removed Harry's jacket and held the material next to her cheek. They could never be any closer than this. The weekend was an aberration. They had crossed a line at the hotel; it would be prudent to reset it. With a sigh, she turned toward the bathroom; wanting to take a long luxurious soak but knowing that time demanded a shower. Anything would do, as long as it rinsed away the memories of that day. The tap ran full blast as she peeled off her clothes, steam overtaking the room. She stood under the water, letting it work on her sore muscles, while she took a washcloth and scrubbed at her skin. Tiny bottles of shampoo sat on the shelf and she poured out a generous measure, hoping the fragrance would take away the scent of regret. Feeling guilty for staying under the water for so long, she finally turned off the taps and towelled herself dry. On the off chance that Harry had let himself back into the room, she slowly opened the door and peeked around the corner. It was empty. She made a dash to her suitcase and picked out an outfit, wishing that she had different clothes to wear, clothes that were not her. She ran the towel over her hair and plugged in the tiny hotel hair dryer. The lights around the vanity were exceptionally kind, giving her face a youthful glow. Or perhaps it was the layer of skin she had scrubbed off. The hair dryer hummed noisily and she closed her eyes, letting the hot air tickle her scalp. After a few minutes, she turned it off, the silence of the room more apparent. Her cosmetic bag lay on the counter and she dabbed a bit of colour on her face. If only she could take the lighting from the bathroom with her. She headed back out to the bedroom and stopped abruptly when she saw Harry leaning against the desk. He was scrolling through the messages on his phone, his suitcase off to one side, his suit jacket neatly placed on top of it.

"I didn't know you were back."

"I was getting in everyone's way up there." He looked up from his phone. "Did I give you enough time?"

She couldn't help but feel his question wasn't necessarily about her freshening up.

"Yes, I just need to finish packing my things."

Items lay scattered around and she silently prayed that there was nothing embarrassing on view. The wooden hangers in the closet clacked loudly as she pulled out her black dress. She could feel Harry's eyes on her, following her about the room. She lifted her suitcase onto the rack at the bottom of the bed and carelessly dropped her clothes into the hold. Remembering her toiletries, she retraced her steps to the bathroom, crossing near where Harry stood. His hand reached out and captured her wrist.

"Ruth."

She kept her face averted. "I'm almost done."

"Talk to me, Ruth."

She knew what he wanted her to say, that their previous evening together was a prelude to something more. It wasn't, it couldn't be. She had no words to tell him.

"I want to go home," she whispered.

The lament of the forlorn and forgotten. Amaani had uttered those exact words, and like her, Ruth knew she could never go home. She could never go back to her former life. The insular world of a desk spook, removed from the horrors of the field. Harry's thumb moved over the back of her hand in soothing circles. She attempted to pull away but he held on. Succumbing to the comfort of his touch, she relented, relishing it if only for a moment. What could she offer him? A heart decimated by grief. He deserved so much more. She tilted her head, asking in advance for his forgiveness. In all the languages that she knew there were no words to explain her feelings.

"Harry…" She faded off, overcome by cowardice.

"What is it?"

"I don't think…" she swallowed, looking for her resolve. "I don't think there's a place for us. For this."

"I think there is."

"I don't see how."

"We have to make a place." He released her hand, bringing his fingers up to run over the smooth skin of her arm.

"Where?"

"Where ever we can find one."

"Between bomb threats and terror cells?" She couldn't stop the note of cynicism from creeping into her voice.

"Don't say it like that."

"People like us don't get to have a life."

"Ruth."

He gently tugged at her arm pulling her in closer so that she stood between his legs. She stiffened as his knees brushed against her legs, his presence enveloping her. Her vow to create a professional distance wavered, the idea of line quickly evaporating.

"Ruth."

This time her name was a plea bringing her back to the moment.

"We're adults. We know how this life works. You're a brilliant woman. Surely, between us, we can think of a solution."

She looked down, her brow knitting together as she acknowledged her own ingratitude in the situation, how this man had continually offered himself up to her and how she had continually refused him. It had to stop; she couldn't continue to hurt him. He nudged her with his leg, looking for a response. She looked up into his face, so achingly familiar, each crease and imperfection imprinted in her memory, a countenance that she had studied more thoroughly than that of any lover. How she had missed that face – missed him. Instinctively, she raised her hand to his cheek, wonderfully real under her cool touch of her hand. He was solid, he was strong. Everything in her life was broken but he remained. With each breath, her chest expanded. He brought his hand up to cover hers, adjusting it slightly so that his lips pressed against the soft flesh of her palm. Dipping his head lower, he kissed the tender skin on the inside of her wrist. A sigh escaped from her lips. It was no use deceiving herself; she loved him. His hand found her waist and pulled her further into the circle of his legs, his cheek rubbing against hers as he whispered into her ear.

"Don't give up us."

She breathed against his skin, warm and musky, inhaling the layers of his scent until she found the undertone that was distinctly him. She could detect it anywhere. All the times she had sat next to him, the times he had leant into her, the times she had almost tasted him.

If only they could stay in that room forever, flirting with the edge of desire, hidden from the judging eyes of fate. His hand dropped to the small of her back, finding the sensitive spot at the base of her spine. The heat of his fingers seeped through the fabric of her skirt, her nerves coming to life, yearning for his touch on her bare skin. The weight of resistance was becoming very heavy and she was growing weak. Would the world end if she gave into him? She had given up so much, surely the fates would not begrudge her one moment of happiness.

"Here," she whispered.

"What?" he asked against her cheek.

"Let's steal a moment."

He drew his head back and looked at her, eyes dark, lips parted in a question. The courage that had eluded her for so long converged in her chest and she gathered herself together, marvelling that was far easier to move forward than to go back.

"You said we had to make our own place. Let's make one. Here."

He stared at her for a moment, long enough for a kernel of doubt to form her mind. Had she misread the situation? He straightened up from the desk, letting his arms fall away from her sides. A sliver of panic ran through her. She had been too forward with her suggestion. Last night they had talked about taking things slow and now she was ignoring their agreement. She was frustratingly inconsistent. He crossed to the door, and she panicked with the thought that he was leaving. There was the dull thud of metal as he clicked the deadbolt into place. He retraced his steps to where she stood, holding her to the spot with the intensity of his gaze. Still puzzled by his behaviour, she looked at him curiously, thinking that they were going to have a serious conversation on their need for caution. He slid his finger into the knot of his tie and pulled it loose, slipping the silk through his collar and dropping it carelessly onto the floor. He undid the first few buttons of his shirt and stopped in front of her. Her heart thudded in her chest as it dawned on her what she had unleashed, and she took a step back. With one sinuous movement, he closed the distance between them and wrapped his arm around her waist, their bodies crashing together as his lips met hers with a bruising force. Her lips parted in surprise, his tongue invading her mouth in a soul consuming search. With a stunning thoroughness, his hands roamed over her shape, laying claim to all before she disappeared. Any thought of resistance was lost, her mind reeling from the rapaciousness of his desire. Palm moulding over the curve of her hip, his fingers digging into the flesh, he pushed her back against the desk, his hand running down the back of her thigh, lifting her leg against his. She pulled back, words caught in her panting throat. This was definitely not slow. Desire fought with reason - wanting to be taken on that desk, but desperately afraid it would all burn out too quickly. She pressed her hands against his chest, feeling the hammer of his heart pounding beneath her palms. As if sensing her hesitancy, he eased away. Her hands ran over his chest, unable to order her thoughts, fingers gravitating to the opening of his shirt. The remaining buttons slid open under her fingers, and she pushed against him, subtly manoeuvring them away from the desk. Following her lead, his hands moved under the fabric of her blouse, tugging at the material, her arms rising above her as he pulled it over her head. They clung to each other, skin against almost skin. His lips exploring sensitive skin; her throat, the notch of her collar bone, the flushed skin over her chest. He bent her back with the hunger of his mouth, hands splayed across her spine in support. She clutched at his shoulders, trusting that he would not let her fall, curving away with a suppleness she did not know she possessed. His tongue explored the valley between her breasts, lips at the edge of her bra, searching for access. Shifting his weight, he gripped her waist, his lips trailing down her body. She righted herself, still swaying from the initial onslaught. Hands held firmly on her hips for support, he dropped to his knees, his breath hot against her stomach. Her mouth opened, his name forming on her lips but no sound came out. With a growing hunger, he moved to the waistline of her skirt, fingers pulling at the fabric, exposing the top of her hip bone. She stood above him, feeling like a goddess as he worshipped at her feet, the whole experience overwhelmingly surreal. It was too much; she was undeserving of his ardour. Her heart beat wildly and she swayed against him, simultaneously aroused and terrified at the passage of his mouth. What were they doing? They were more than a tryst in a hotel room. They were more than sex and regret and loneliness.

"Harry," she whispered, testing to see if she had the capacity for speech.

He ignored her, focusing on the zipper of her skirt, fingers fumbling as the material caught in the metal teeth.

"Harry." She took a step back and came up to bed. Her knees buckled and she collapsed back onto it.

"What?" He moved between her knees, his hand stealing under the hem of her skirt.

Thoughts collided with sensations as his thumb traced along her inner thigh, the moment having already far exceeded her imagination. She licked her lips unable to think. Everything in her world had fallen apart; there was no reason why she and Harry would be the exception, she wanted to make this moment last as long as possible.

"Can we slow this down?"

"Tell me what you want me to do." His fingers traced over her thigh, pulling at the elastic of her tights.

"Why do you give me so much power?"

"Do I?" He looked at her under heavy lids, as if she had issued a challenge.

In one masterful move, he pushed her back onto the bed, sliding alongside her as he positioned her body on the counterpane. Propping himself up on one elbow, he loomed over her, tracing the outline of her bra, fingers slipping the strap down over her shoulder, his thumb pressing into the hollow beneath the bone. She flinched at his touch. His hand stilled and he looked at her with concern.

"Someone fell on me," she said quietly, not wanting to break the moment, not wanting to be reminded of the events of the afternoon.

The air of the room shifted and the rawness of his gaze fell away. Lifting his head, his eyes scanned her body, taking in the subtle markings on her skin. With delicate care, he traced the red line at her throat where the necklace had dug in, the scratches on her arm, the bruise from the needle, the shadow at her temple.

"I will never let anyone hurt you." He ran his knuckles gently over her cheek. "I would never put you in harm's way."

She closed her eyes, her faith restored in him with the assurance that he had not knowingly sent her into the danger of that room.

He dipped his head to her shoulder, pressing his lips against the bruised flesh. "You are far too precious to me.

Her lip trembled, his tender words tugging at the chains around her heart. She wanted to be free, but the lock of guilt was very strong. She wanted to cry at the unfairness of it all, of each blow and bruise dealt to them, precious years stolen. She squeezed her eyes shut.

Darling," he murmured, his lips pressing softly on her eyelids. "Sweetheart."

Simple terms of endearment said in the affection of the moment, reaching into her with far greater impact than he could ever imagine. Undone with words, the last wrappings of her hidden heart fell away. She would not give up the beauty of the moment to the ghosts of the past. She curled her fingers around the front of his shirt, holding on tightly, refusing to let him go.

"We've lost so much time."

"But we're here now." His fingers traced along her jaw, his thumb moving along the side of her throat, his mouth near her ear. "Shall we find more than a moment?" he whispered. "Can I take my time with you?"

Emotions threatening to spill over, words trivial, she pulled him down to her mouth, lips moving against his, the kiss long and slow. Bodies melding together, sinking into the sensuousness of the moment, she savoured the taste of him. No one could take him away, he belonged to her. Her fingers moved under his shirt, hands pressing against the dip of his back, the skin deliciously warm. His hands reclaimed favoured spots on her body, the rise of her breast, the curve of her waist. Slow touches, cautious of fragile emotions, they held each other, the bed holding them.

A shiver of desire ran through her.

"You're cold,"

"No, I'm fine."

Gathering the top of the sheets, he pulled them back, stopping in mid-motion to look at her. They sat there, drinking each other in as the sun left the room, twilight stealing in around them, the lines of their former selves blurring. She moved her fingers to his throat, fingers tracing over his skin, taking her time as she trailed under his shirt and along the plane of his shoulder. Pulling his shirt off, she pressed her lips against his throat, the skin near his collarbone surprising soft. It was her turn to push him back, kissing his chest as her fingers worked at his belt. His arms moved around her, his fingers releasing the snap of her bra, gliding over her hips and finding the zip of her skirt. A huff of frustration left him, followed by a low chuckle.

"This zipper isn't cooperating."

"You just have to know how to work it."

"I can't do my job if you keep distracting me."

She raised her head, an impish smile on her lips. He looked at her earnestly.

"I want to make you smile."

This man and his simple words, how they could affect her so.

Sitting back on her knees, she moved his hands away and eased the zipper down, lithely removing her skirt. He lay motionless, silently watching her. Even in the encroaching darkness, her body flushed under his gaze. She reached across his stomach, tugging at his belt buckle.

"You might want to do the same."

"What that? Take off my skirt?"

Her smile galvanised him into action. His trousers hit the floor with a resounding thump, punctuated by the clinking of keys and coins.

Slipping beneath the blankets, they held each other, hot skin on cool sheets, limbs entwined, delighting in the feel of only ever before imagined contact. There was nothing between them, no excuses, no regret, only the promise of desires fulfilled. Murmurs and sighs grew into demanding kisses; want hardening, a need stirring deep within them.

With his hot mouth on her breast and his hand between her thighs, she was left to concede that she had no power over him. The band of tension that had engulfed her for days slowly unwound, a more delicious tension taking over her body. It became increasingly apparent that this man was very good at undoing knots. Just as his fingers had artfully slipped the through his tie, they skilfully slid into her, unravelling days, weeks of latent desire. She arched under his touch, her fingers curling against the bed sheets, uncaring of the moans that fell from her lips. The edge neared, so close, but she held herself back, not wanting to let go, not yet. His mouth returned to where her skirt had once been, his tongue pressed against her, finding the hidden spot that was her undoing. Her body rippled beneath his mouth, all control lost and she gave in, tumbling over the edge, limbs falling spent after one final shudder.

She lay panting, exposed, completely vulnerable, no defence left against this man. He spread her legs and she welcomed him, only wanting the feel of him inside her. She gasped as he entered her, a wave of intensity rolling through her, her body having lied dormant for so long.

"Are you alright?" he whispered.

"Yes," she sighed.

Her hands returned to his back, the muscles tight beneath her fingers, sensing that he was holding back. She wanted to tell him to let go; how glorious it was to finally release everything. But words were nothing. She gave into the charged sensation of his body electric against hers, each slow stroke taking her back to a time before. She was that young woman, fresh-faced and not naïve, happy to carry around an unspoken love for this man. She wrapped her legs tighter around him, pulling him closer, her body moving against his, smiles of contentment falling away to pants of pleasure. She whispered his name and he capitulated, flowing into her. The weight of him pressed against her, and she cradled him with her body. Holding on to the very end, he rolled over taking her with him.

This was their place. And having found it once, they could surely find it again.