A/N: Havensworth! I'd miss this scene too much if I didn't include it, so again, I'm borrowing a bit of Spooks dialogue, but adapting it to the story. Thanks for reading and reviewing. Cheers, S.C.

22 July 2006 – Ruth

Being away from the Grid has done her good, and though she's missed Harry terribly, she's glad she took the time she needed to get her head on straight and figure out what she's doing, where she's going, what it is she wants. She'd talked to her mother, had listened to her advise, and decided to follow it – she's decided that a relationship with Harry will only be possible if one of them moves to a different section, at least for a while, a secondment perhaps rather than a permanent transfer. The boss-employee dynamic is just too much, both for her personally and clearly for other people in the section, and taking a break from that, at least until they find their feet in their relationship, is the only way she can think of making this work. And she desperately wants it to work. She loves him too much to let him go, loves him even more than she loves her job, and is willing to sacrifice it for something less fulfilling in another department in order to be with him.

The problem is that she knows he's not going to like it, and as such, she's failed to tell him even though it's been two days already since her return. She should have rung him last night really, but she'd been so exhausted from rushing back to London, going to the Grid straight from the station, working non-stop since her arrival – writing Sekoa's speech, helping figure out the organisation of the surveillance and operation at the conference, delegating tasks to junior officers, looking up the info needed on the various players and a million other things – that she'd barely managed to crawl into bed before falling into a deep, dreamless sleep. Besides, Harry had stayed at Havensworth last night and she hadn't known if he was free to talk, so she'd decided to leave their conversation until after the summit.

But that had been before Adam had requested her presence at the hotel, before she'd arrived to find Harry waiting for her, his eyes searching hers as he'd spoken to her and handed her her pass, before he'd become adorably flustered over sleeping arrangements – quite bizarrely, she'd thought – reiterating that she has her own room, as if he'd expected her to think he'd arranged to share one with her without her prior knowledge or consent.

And now, after another exhausting day, she can't sleep, the music coming from next door in combination with her jumbled thoughts and emotions, not to mention the strange bed and the thought that Harry's trying to sleep too somewhere in this hotel, sabotaging all her attempts to get some much needed shut eye. She sighs, wishing that she were home instead, and throws off the covers, changing back into her clothes and opening the door of her room, intent on finding out if the source of the racket is the Italian Trade Minister, as she suspects – she remembers reading about him during the initial fact gathering stage of this operation. She slips out of her room into the corridor and immediately comes face to face with Harry.

Oh God! She wasn't aware that their rooms were so close together or that would have compounded her inability to sleep tonight. He looks gorgeous, his jacket and tie gone, several shirt buttons undone revealing his smooth chest, and all she can think about is waking up beside him the other day, running her fingertips across that exact expanse of skin, his groans of pleasure at her touch, the hot kisses they'd shared, the feel of him inside her.

She blinks and looks down, hoping none of her thoughts show on her face as she indicates vaguely over her shoulder. "Um... the music woke me." He doesn't say anything, slowly moving closer at the same steady pace, his eyes never leaving her face. "I've never really gone in for Europop." She's babbling now and she knows it.

He comes to a halt a couple of yards from her. "It looks like you weren't sleeping at all," he says in a husky voice. "Nor was I."

She swallows, unable to look away from his mesmerising eyes, feeling the pull on her heart to go to him. "It's the Italian Trade Minister," she manages to say, the knowledge flowing out of her unbidden. "He's apparently a bit of a party animal," she continues, trying not to notice him move closer still, his eyes seductive, wanting, yearning for her. "He caused a scandal at an EU conference last year by insisting on dancing to the Macarena at the last night banquet."

He's so close now she could touch him and his beautiful eyes have rendered her speechless, her mind going suddenly blank, gaze dropping to his chest, watching in fascination as it flushes under her scrutiny, and she knows that if she looks further down, his arousal will be even more apparent.

"Ruth," he murmurs huskily, drawing her gaze back to his. "This is killing me." His eyes are suddenly raw with emotion, making her insides contract, tremble with the need of him. "I can't wait any more. Tell me... Is there any hope for us?"

"Not here, Harry," she replies, shaking her head and taking a step back, but he moves swiftly, grasping her hand to stop her retreat.

"Please," he says urgently. "Just tell me. Yes or no?"

"It's not that simple."

"I know," he replies, drawing her hand up to his chest, using both hands to hold it as he gazes into her eyes, wordlessly pleading with her. "Just yes or no," he repeats. "That's all I'm asking. The rest we can work out later."

This isn't the time or the place for this conversation, but she cannot bear to torture him any more, even if her answer brings his hopes too high, making the disappointment harder to bear later. At least it's not a no, she tells herself. Surely he'll be able to see the bright side when I tell him that I can no longer work for him, won't he?

"Yes," she says. His eyes close, his face relaxing in relief, his nostrils flaring with emotion as he drops his chin for a moment before lifting his head again to look at her.

"Thank you," he murmurs, eyes soft, open, and full of love.

"There are conditions though, Harry," she quickly points out, not wanting to have him think they're out of the woods yet.

"I understand," he says, still gazing into her eyes with undisguised emotion.

"It's late. We should get some sleep. I'll get the management to ask the Trade Minister to turn it down," she whispers, desperately trying to stop herself from being seduced.

"Alright," he agrees, lifting her hand to his lips and softly kissing the inside of her wrist, making her shiver, her eyes closing involuntarily and flying back open when she feels him tug hard on her hand, sending her stumbling into his chest where he wraps his arms around her to steady her and hungrily kisses her lips.

She moans, unable to contain the sound, her head swimming at the intoxicating effect he has on her, her hands slipping over his shoulders to tangle in his hair almost reflexively, pulling him closer. She can taste the whisky on his lips, the scent of him filling her nostrils, the sound of the music fading like she's suddenly underwater, blood pounding in her ears. Christ! What is happening to me?

Not here, she tells herself, struggling to regain control and wrench herself away from him.

"Not here," she repeats, realising only after she's spoken that it's only the first time she's said the words aloud. "There's CCTV and Diaspora. We're in the middle of an operation. We can't do this now, Harry."

His eyes are on hers, smouldering, chest heaving with each breath. The seconds tick past, both of them rooted to the spot, both of them struggling with their desire, both of them wishing that they were somewhere else, alone, free and unshackled by duty.

"You're right," he says, eventually. "The op comes first. We can't have any distractions."

"No," she agrees. "No distractions." Her eyes stray to his lips, distracted by the shape of them, her need to kiss them again.

Jesus, Ruth! This is not good! Get a grip!

"I'm going to bed now," she announces, more to herself than him. "I need to sleep and so do you, Harry. And stay away from the whisky," she adds rather daringly, sensing that he's had a little too much already tonight – it's not like him to lose track of their objective here, to lose his self-control.

Her comment doesn't make him angry as she half-fears it might – it makes him smile instead, his eyes softening as he slips his hands into his pockets.

"What?" she asks.

"I like it when you worry about me."

She smiles at that, unable to help herself, and shakes her head at him. "Goodnight, Harry," she says and turns away, walking back to her room and getting into bed again, a smile still on her lips as she thinks of him. She's forgotten to call the management, has forgotten about the music, has forgotten about everything really, everything but him, yet it doesn't seem to matter. Thinking of Harry – his expressive eyes and soft lips, his desire and love for her – seems to be exactly what she needs because she quickly falls into a restful, dreamless sleep.