A/N – Not wanting to break with tradition, there is a bit of M content at the end of the chapter. For the holidays. ;)

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Chapter 21 - The Right Thing

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There is nothing quite as lonely as the solitary walk across a deserted parking lot. As Harry crossed through the underground lot the air of desolation was palpable. His nostrils filled with the fumes of spent exhaust, the low hum inadequate ventilation following him around every corner. The roar of a lone engine sounded in the distance, followed by the squeal of brakes as the car manoeuvred the tight corners towards the entrance. Harry's footsteps reverberated off the concrete walls, playing tricks with his senses, and he slowed down as he neared a pillar. He paused, waiting. It was only the echo of his heels. He was being paranoid. Continuing on, he jangled his keys in his coat pocket, briefly remembering Ruth's lesson in self-defence the night she demonstrated it with her keys between her fingers. He closed his eyes at the thought of her. She had come to him as he knew she would; after James Allen had torn a strip off of him over the death of Sekoa, after Ros had berated him for withholding the news of her father's sentence. (Though twenty years was still far too lenient a sentence for Myers, the man had led a coup and locked him up after all.) Entering his office with an air of trepidation, Ruth had assured him that he had done the right thing regarding Ros, underscoring her words by placing a gentle hand on his arm. There had been no grand overture, no declaration, only comfort. It was not what he had envisioned but it was a sign that she had not entirely forsaken him, though any satisfaction he gained by her gesture was tempered by the sinking feeling that it was all she would give him.

Tired and restless, he longed for company. Ros' words still echoed in his head. With biting accuracy, she had deftly labelled his life a walking disaster, an assessment he could not refute. The tangled mess between him and Ruth seemed no closer to being resolved, in fact, he had probably complicated matters even more at Havensworth. If he were to spend the evening alone, he would only brood over his lack of progress on that front, guaranteeing him another sleepless night. He weighed his options. There was the club with its promise convivial conversation, but after the international debacle with Sekoa assassination it was best to avoid any political circles. He could go home to Scarlett. She would welcome him, always ready with unconditional loyalty. But he had boarded her at a kennel while he was out of town; it was probably closed at that late hour. There was a pub a few blocks from his house; he could stop in for a pint. Yes, that's what he would do.

Nearing his car, he pulled out his keys, the chirp of his car alarm splitting the air as he deactivated it. The resulting silence was even more oppressive. His hand froze by the door handle, the hairs on the back of his neck standing to attention. He cocked his head, listening. He was being followed. A bolt of adrenaline shot through him, instinct kicking in. He covertly scanned his surroundings careful to avoid giving any indication that he was aware of another presence. He had nothing to defend himself, only his keys and the element of surprise. He whirled around to confront his stalker.

She stood before him like a ghost, her white coat ethereal in the darkness. Surprised by his sudden turn, she stepped back and gasped, blinking with fright.

"Christ, Ruth!" His heart pounded with shock and relief. "What are you doing here?"

"I thought..." A look of panic crossed her eyes, her body tensing as if she were about to flee. She swallowed hard. "I thought perhaps we should talk."

The words every man dreaded to hear. Harry looked around the car park.

"Here?"

No. I..." She shifted her handbag from one hand to the other. "I thought perhaps you could give me a lift."

Harry's lips drew into a line as he debated his response. He would, of course, give her a ride, but he was a veteran of enough relationships to know that a talk was never a step towards romance but rather the dissolution of any such relationship. As much as he was intrigued by her appearance, the thought of dissecting the reasons why they couldn't be together as he navigated through the snarl of London traffic did not fill him with a sense of joy. She waited for his reply, her face unnaturally pale under the greenish hue of the fluorescent lights. Her eyes studied him, large and dark, giving her an unworldly quality, a nymph of the car park. The hem of her coat almost touched the ground, making her look small, and to his eyes, so very vulnerable. He could never refuse her. He nodded and gestured toward the passenger side of the car.

It was strange not opening the door for her and ushering her in; he missed the satisfaction of safely installing her in her seat. He waited while she strapped on her seatbelt, acknowledging that she was her own person, she could take care of herself. Keys in the ignition, he paused before turning on the engine. He was certain he would be driving toward disappointment; he was a glutton for torture, seeing he home, wishing her a good night and then leaving.

"Harry?" she prompted. "Everything alright?

Without answering, he started the engine and concentrated on backing out, navigating the Mobius strip of ramps that led to the exit. Once out on the street, he spoke.

"You can take tomorrow off if you like." He kept his tone neutral as he studied the traffic.

"Oh." She looked away from him and out onto the street. "I haven't finished my report on the summit."

"We all need a break."

Perhaps that was the answer, a break from her, a chance to regain his equilibrium and appraise the situation objectively. He should revisit his commandments; they had served him well up until that point.

The journey was conducted in silence, tension creeping in through the vents, even as he adjusted the heat. He had no idea what to say. It would have been easier if he had met an assailant in the parking lot.

Pulling up to the kerb near her house, he left the engine running, his hand remaining on the steering wheel.

"Come in for a minute." It was neither a question nor a command, more of a tentative offering.

Doubting the wisdom of his decision, he nodded, cutting the engine and releasing his seat belt. Her house was melancholy in the winter night, the lustre of promise that it had held a few nights ago now lost. The squeak of her gate only served to underscore the breakdown of their relationship, the clink of the latch, a signal of closure. She fiddled with the lock, a larger version of the last one, gleaming with a new brass finish. Crossing the threshold, she immediately stepped over to a small panel and quickly tapped in a set of numbers. She turned to him, an apologetic smile on her face.

"Malcolm put in a new system."

She did not move further into the house but remained in the hallway, dashing his hopes of a chat over a glass of scotch in her kitchen. Her hands played with her scarf, crossing it over the collar of her coat, hiding any hint of the woman beneath. He waited, hands hanging by his sides.

"You wanted to talk," he reminded her.

She drew a deep breath, face serious as she weighed her words. "I think I owe you an explanation-"

"You don't need to explain." He cut her off, a defensive reaction, anticipating a list that was sure to enumerate his shortcomings.

"I'm not sure if I should stay," she blurted out.

"What?" Utterly unexpected, her words hit him in the gut. Senses roused to attention as if he had been sleepwalking, he challenged her, the instinct to fight having been awoken. "You can't leave."

"You said it yourself; we can't go on like this."

"I didn't mean for you to leave. I meant..." Not knowing how to articulate his thoughts, words escaped him. They were on a tightrope, he going forward, she stepping back, a safety net lacking in either direction.

"I'm not very brave, Harry."

"Of course you are. You're braver than you think."

"It's like Malcolm said, I dread the day where I will be called upon to use it."

"But you have already."

"It's easy for you. You're...you're..." She raised her hand in frustration, muttering to her self. "Oh, god, it sounded better in my head." Taking a deep breath, she continued. "You're the head of counterterrorism, you walk into a room and it fills with your presence, you command attention. I'm the girl in the corner."

"You are far from the girl in the corner."

"I'm not made for the spotlight. You are

"I don't understand why you've written an end to our story before it's even begun."

"Because..." She ran her fingers through her hair, scrunching her lips as she debated how much to reveal. She glanced at the door; she could not flee her own house. After a sigh of resignation, she decided to continue. "At GCHQ, there was a senior officer in cybercrime, and I don't know why, but he chose me. And I...I adored him, but it got very messy, very quickly. There were whispers and innuendo, accusations of favouritism, my achievements weren't merited. It was one of the reasons jumped at the secondment to Five."

The bottom dropped out of his stomach, the idea that she had adored another man spearing his heart. Shit. How many men had there been? A tally ran in his head. He stilled his mind, trying to focus on her words, telling himself that they were a window into her reasoning.

"And with you, it would be even worse," she concluded.

His head recoiled as if stung. "A relationship with me would be worse?"

"Yes. I mean, no. I mean in the sense that there would be whispers and speculation and-"

"I told you I don't care about that."

"But I do." She implored him to understand. "I'm a woman, I'm your subordinate. I've worked hard. I don't want to leave-"

"No one is saying you have to."

"But I don't see any other way."

He was losing her. His mind rifled through tactics and arguments, landing on the only question he could think of. "If you knew all this, then why did you agree to go on a date with me?

"Oh…." The lines on her face disappeared, her brow softening. "You were so…" Her voice faded away and she closed her eyes. "It was one of the things I had always imagined you doing."

He straightened up, head cocked, digesting her words, a switch moving in his mind, sending his thoughts off on a different track.

"You imagined me doing things?"

She blinked, her diatribe derailed, her mind backing up as she realised that she may have revealed too much.

"I… well…"

"What sort of things did you ... imagine?"

"I..um..." She looked down at the floor and nervously tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

A thrill ran through him, an opportunity presenting itself, the suspicion that he may have discovered the crumbling brick at the base of her argument. He only needed to reach in and pry it loose, and it would all come crashing down.

"You imagined I would ask you to dinner," he reiterated in a coaxing voice. "What else?"

She kept her eyes lowered, a crimson flush creeping over her cheeks. He pressed his advantage.

"A kiss perhaps." He inched a step closer. "Maybe something a little more?"

Mustering her self-preservation, she gave him a level look, her lips drawn in an emphatic line. He would get no more from her. There were other ways to chip at her wall.

"Do you want to know what I imagined?"

Her mouth dropped open, well aware that he did not hold the same reticence in these matters that she did. Her gaze flitted about, landing on the wall, his shoes, her hands.

"I think we've gotten a bit off topic."

He waited, knowing eventually that her eyes would find his. When they did, he inhaled slowly, drawing her in, her breath all but stopping. Satisfied that he had her attention, his lips moved in the merest hint of a smile. She knew him, she read him, aware of his thoughts before he had them. His eyes moved down to her lips.

"Carry on then," he graciously conceded.

"I…" Her thought unfinished, she licked her lips nervously.

"You were saying?"

He let his gaze drop to her scarf, slowly unwinding it with his eyes, revealing the column of her throat, remembering the pulse where he had pressed his lips. His mouth parted with the memory.

"Harry….:"

"Hmmm?" He barely heard her words, the fingers of his mind undoing the buttons of her coat, peeling back the fabric of her shirt.

"Don't do that."

He raised an innocent brow. "Do what?"

"That…. look." She crossed her arms. "It makes it more difficult."

"To do what?"

Her eyes dropped to the floor, unable to meet his. She drew in a shaky breath and gathered her courage before giving her quiet answer.

"To say no."

"Then don't."

Once again, they had reached the end of the rope. He was willing to let go. Was she? His eyes roamed over her making no attempt to hide his desire for her. Her head tilted to one side. He could almost hear her walls cracking, bricks falling away. He chanced a subtle step closer, cautious, not wanting to overreach. She swayed, teetering on the edge of capitulation, but she held back.

From somewhere deep inside her house, a burst of air sounded - the flame of her boiler igniting. In the silence of her hall, the pipes ticked softly, followed by a distant rattle from the upper floor as the water wound its way through the system. A hiss sounded from the radiator beside him, growing louder as steam filled the pipes. He stood, desire trickling through his veins, staring at the woman he had that covertly coveted. Pressure grew in his chest, the bands of duty and responsibility stretching, thinning, dissolving. A valve opened, feelings expanding and rising to the surface, refusing to be denied. He called to her with his secret soul, speaking to her with his eyes.

Put your hand over my heart. Take it.

She stepped back as if he offered her fire.

He raised a gloved hand toward her, palm upturned. It was him, impervious leather on the outside but a man beneath, should she care to expose it. She looked down at it and then back up at him.

Take it.

She was so close, he knew from experience, recognised the signs; the parting of her lips, the tempo of her breath, the tension melting from her shoulders.

"Ruth."

Her name barely brushed over his lips, but she had heard it. He would wait as long as he needed, holding his hand out to her. There would be no retreat, only surrender.

It fell from her, the last piece of the wall and she reached out to him, her slender fingers coming to rest on the dark leather of his glove. Instantly, his fingers wrapped around hers, pulling her into him, the slightness of her form colliding against the solidness of his body. His chest heaved with the relief, and he closed his eyes, his mouth next to hers.

"I never meant for this to happen," he confessed, voice low, a warning that he was moving out of his depth.

"Neither did I," she whispered.

His mouth claimed hers, consuming her, breathing her in like a drowning man. Her fingers clutched at the lapels of his coat, pulling him closer, desire unbound, throwing them off balance. They stumbled; he turned with her, pushing her back against the wall. Her head bumped against the wall, a soft moan escaping her lips.

"Sorry," he murmured.

But he wasn't sorry. With his arms around her and her back against the wall, she could not escape. He had her all to himself. Seconds, minutes, time immaterial as they tasted each other, his tongue thrusting deep inside her. She nudged against him, and he released his hold, letting her ease away. Following her lead, he took a step toward her living room, envisioning the comforts of her couch. She pulled him in the opposite direction, stepping onto her stairs. He looked at her in confusion.

"What are you doing?"

"Isn't this what you want?" she asked.

"Yes, but..." The memory of her wanting to wait until they knew each other surfaced. He may never solve the riddle of this woman, but then he was not entirely sure that he wanted to. "What do you want?"

The step brought her eyes level with his, and she looked deep into him, the blue parsing his thoughts, delving into his being. She raised her hand, her finger drawing through the hair at his temple, coming round to his cheek, cupping his face. She bent her head towards him, her forehead pressing against his.

"I want you."

She released her breath in a huff of relief, the admission setting her free.

With a rush of gratitude, he found her lips, shoulders moving with a sigh as her arms wound their way around his neck. He lost himself in the perfect placement of her lips.

Unwinding herself from his grasp, she took his hand and led him up the stairs. They paused on the landing, the glow of a lone street lamp filtering through a stained glass window, shades of orange and red reflecting on her face. He wanted to see her body under that light. To his amazement, he realised that she was still in her coat. How had they managed to drink in so much of each other without removing a stitch of clothing? He leaned back against the wainscoting, tugging at her scarf, the wool uncooperative under his leather gloves. She caught his hand in hers, and he searched her face thinking that she was about to halt their progress. As she held his wrist, her fingers worked over the leather of his glove, pulling at the tip, inching it upward, her lip caught between her teeth as she concentrated on easing it off of his hand. A tiny smile of triumphant graced her lips and she met his eyes, the glove dangling in her hand. Hypnotised, he swallowed hard, the lick of lust so long denied stirring within him. In the same manner, she relieved him of his other glove. His hands unencumbered, he reached for the ends of her scarf drawing her into him.

"I wanted you at that hotel." He drew the scarf slowly from around her neck, letting it fall indiscriminately at her feet. "I've wanted you for such a long time."

His words elicited a tiny whimper from her as he set to work at the buttons of her coat. As he pushed back her collar, she evaded his grasp, lithely stepping on the stairs, her arms slipping free as he pulled the coat from behind. After a few steps, she turned and he paused on the step beneath her. Rising above him, she freed the buttons of his overcoat and unceremoniously dropped it to the ground, the bulky garment sliding down the polished steps to the landing. She steadied herself with her hands on his shoulders; his head was brought level with her breasts. One hand on her hip, he brought the other one up to cup her breast, moulding his palm to its rounded perfection. Fingers bunching at the material at her hip, he wanted to drop to his knees right there and run his hand up his skirt, leaving a trail for his mouth to follow. He swayed imagining the taste of her. She smiled with her knowledge of the sphinx and led him on. He followed, Apollo to her Danphe afraid that at any moment she would be turned into a laurel tree.

He caught her at the top of the stairs, pressing against her, marking her, ensuring that no god could take her. She slipped her hands under his jacket and worked it off over his shoulders, the mobile in his pocket making a soft thud as it hit the ground. He didn't care. He hoped it was broken. There was no light on her upper floor so they moved along her hall in shadow. The forbidden veil of his secret dreams pulled back, he followed her into her bedroom. The room was shrouded in darkness, the night starless outside her window. Stepping blindly behind her, his foot hit a book sending it across the floor.

"Sorry," she apologised. "I wasn't expecting any guests."

"I'm glad you weren't expecting anyone."

His hands found her in the darkness. "I can't see a thing."

"There's nothing to see."

His lips grazed her cheek, his mouth next to her ear. "I want to see you."

She leaned away from him, her waist supported by his hands as her arm reached around to the space behind her. There was a bump as her hand hit an object, followed by a thud and the gentle tinkling of glass.

"Oh, shit." She turned back to him. "Oh well, you'll just have to wait until next time."

He latched onto her words. Next time; there would be the next time.

The squeak of a mattress told him that she had sat on the bed, and as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he could make out her silhouette dimly visible as she undid the zipper of her boot. The slight rasp of metal teeth dragging down the leather sent a frisson of desire through him, the serpent coiled at the base of his spine uncurled, hungry for her. He toed off his shoes and in one swift move, pushed her back onto the bed, the weight of his body falling on top of her.

"I still have a boot on," she objected, her lips on his chin as she pulled at his tie.

If only that was all she had on. Mouth on hers, his hand found her leg and drew it up alongside him, manipulating the leather as he slid off the offending boot. His fingers skimmed her ankle, encircling the bone, marvelling at how small it was. The curve of her calf fit perfectly in his hand, her leg briefly stretching above them; blood in his groin stirring as he mentally noted its flexibility. She wrapped her leg around him as they sprawled haphazardly across her bed. His fingers roamed over her in the darkness, reminding him that she still wore a jacket and a shirt beneath it.

"I think we missed a step," he murmured against her neck.

Somehow, she had managed to remove his tie, although he had no idea where it had gone. He rolled off of her and sat up pulling her up with him. He made quick work of her jacket but before he could remove her shirt, she drew up on to her knees and pushed him back onto the bed. He lay for a moment, stunned by her forcefulness, blinking as she hitched up her skirt and straddled him. His lips curled with delight, the confirmation that the wild streak he scented in her before was a reality. Her hands ran over his chest, thumbs teasing his nipples, and he gave over to her ministrations, relishing the feel of her fingers as they weaved through the wiry hair over his heart. She undid the cuffs of his shirt, and with his help pulled the sleeves off his arm. His hands came to rest on her waist as she shifted on top of him, creating a delicious friction, his want growing, erection hardening. Bending over him, her mouth covered his with a wanton heat, her hands working at his belt, fingers slipping into his trousers, stroking him. He moaned into her mouth, reality outstripping his imagination. His hands moved under her shirt, the bones of her ribs and spine hard under the melting softness of her skin. She broke from the kiss and sat up, removing her tee shirt in one sweeping move. His hands moved automatically to her breasts, nipples distended under the fabric of her bra. He found the clasp of her bra, and with a dexterity that amazed even him, he unhooked it, drawing it free from over her arms. Half naked, she rose temptingly above him, almost out of reach. Galvanized, he sat up, kissing her hard, asserting his claim on her before rolling her onto her back. Their orientation on the bed was completely irrelevant, the cover in disarray, their clothes scattered everywhere. They were close to the edge; of the bed, of oblivion, he didn't care. Tongue and lips trailing over skin he had only ever glimpsed, he tasted the valley of her cleavage, hand massaging the supple flesh. Drawing her nipple into his mouth, he flicked his tongue over the tip, sucking at the hardened peak. Her hands stilled on his shoulders as she arched against him, her soft sighs of pleasure spurring him on. His hand slipped between her legs, the fabric of her skirt tangling between his fingers, his progress impeded. Not finding the zip of her skirt, he tugged at her tights, his fingers ripping through the sheer netting. He did not even pretend to be sorry. He raised his head from her breast, allowing her to wriggle under him as he pulled the tights down her legs. Distracted by kisses, they lay on their sides, his arms wrapped around her, pulling her close, the flesh of her breasts pressed against his chest. His hands ran over her, detailing secret curves that had only ever been hinted at, his fingers pressing into the roundness of her ass as they slowly gyrated against each other. Restless hands moved over her and he stumbled across the zip of her skirt, undoing it, finally freeing her of the constraint. The tips of his fingers traced over the flimsy material of her pants and he inhaled sharply through his teeth, the dampness between her legs momentarily stopping his heart, starting again as he preened with the knowledge that it was he who had made her wet. His mind stuttered, overwhelmed by lust, remaining shreds of finesse falling away. He hastily tugged at the material, allowing her to help him. He slid one finger inside her, hot and slick, and then two, her legs parting as she moaned beneath him. He kissed a line across her belly, the scent of her overwhelming all thought. His mouth moved to join his fingers, the taste of honey on his tongue, as lapped her. Somewhere in the distance, his name floated to him on a sigh, then a plea, then as a guttural moan from the depth of her being. Bucking beneath his mouth, her limbs suddenly tensed and then melted with a shudder. He wanted to continue, but her fingers tugged at him, his name now a summoning whisper. Pulling himself up her body, he let his hands roam over her exposed flesh, fingers gliding across her skin, warm and slightly damp, blood thrumming beneath the surface.

"God, you're beautiful," he whispered, awe in his voice, overcome by the wonder that the woman who had only ever visited him in his dreams now lay before him.

She reached up and pulled his head down, rewarding him with a kiss, signalling the satisfaction of her desire, and serving to remind him of his unfulfilled hunger.

He struggled with his trousers, cursing as his foot became entangled, finally freeing himself and tossing them carelessly off the bed. A shiver ran through her body as he hovered over her, his arms holding him away, wanting to draw out the moment that had haunted his nights. He lowered himself, laying over her, covering her with the heat of his body. So small beneath him, and yet possessing her own particular strength. She was brave. He kissed her throat, her chest. And she was his. All his. Delicate wrists trapped in the circle of his fingers, he captured her hands and drew them up over her head, his mouth moving over hers, plundering her depths with his tongue. Pressing into her, hips grinding against her, he wavered, control unravelling. In an effort to pace himself, he pulled back, teasing her with the tip of his erection. She wriggled maddeningly under him, arching against him, her legs opening in invitation. Think of something, anything. He couldn't. His heart thudded in his chest, the roar of blood thundering in his ears, only one thought paramount. Christ, he needed to be inside her. Giving up, he slowly slid into her, pausing as he grasped for a thread of control. He let go of her hands, and her arms embraced him, drawing him closer, her legs wrapping around him. He moved against her, her body rocking under him, desire overtaking everything. His hand kneaded the muscle of her thigh, returning to the curve of her calve, fingers pausing, a moment of hesitation before deciding to move along the length of her leg, stretching it above them, spreading her, allowing each of his thrusts to plunge deeper. He couldn't hold on any longer. He didn't want to hold on. Nothing mattered. Heart pounding perilously, lungs heaving, his breath mixed with the soft pants of her moans. With one last powerful thrust, he released himself into her. Tremors coursed through him, the aftershocks of ecstasy. It was his turn to shudder against her, his mouth finding the hollow of her neck as he collapsed on top of her. She panted beneath him, her heart beating against his. Worried that he was crushing her with his weight, he tried to move but couldn't. Gravity, more than his own muscle power, helped him slide partially off of her. She stirred. A blanket or a duvet, he wasn't sure which, was drawn up over his shoulder.

"Stay with me, Harry," she whispered, the voice from his dreams.

"Yes," he murmured, pulling her closer. "Always."

She curled into him, her breath soft and steady against his chest. He gave a contented hum. Far from being a disaster zone, his life at that particular moment in time was satisfyingly complete.