A/N - Hello lovely people, sorry for the delay. M content on the horizon. (Transmissionends64 you know me far too well!)

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Chapter 9 - Under Gentle Wings

A layer of dust blanketed the frame; a botanical print of an exotic leaf artfully placed at the top of the stairs. Harry had never noticed the dust before, but then he had never paused at that particular spot, leaning against the wall for support. He tried to remember the provenance of the picture, perhaps it was a holdover from Jane. He had no idea how it had come to be on his wall. He ran a finger over the frame, dislodging the particles, watching as they floated down to the floor. It stirred a memory - a cloud of smoke and debris. He closed his eyes, willing the image away, knowing that he would never be free of it. He gave himself a few more seconds against the wall, exhaustion permeating his pores. The silence of the house settled around him. Dust and silence - fitting reminders of the museum that was his personal life.

The quiet of the place worried him; there should be a visitor below. Perhaps she had come to her senses and fled while he had dawdled under the stream of the shower, realising that her duty did not extend past the act of ushering her boss to the safety of his home. He would not blame her for leaving him. The shower may have cleansed his body, but his mind was still blackened by images from the explosion. And his soul; he dare not contemplate the ash that lay gathered around it. Leaving the support of the wall, he took a deep breath, marshalling his composure. He headed down the stairs, internally preparing himself to face an empty house. If she had left, he would go back to the Grid and bury himself in sorting out the fallout from Nightingale. There was nothing to be gained by rattling around in this mausoleum, better to keep his mind busy. Reaching the bottom of the stairs, he turned the corner and walked through the living room. He stopped. The back door leading off of the kitchen was open. Thoughts of intruders immediately sprang to mind, agents of Nightingale exacting revenge. With silent steps, he carefully padded toward the door. Out on the well-worn deck, stood Ruth. Motionless as a statue, she was poised with her head to one side, her attention caught by something in the garden. He halted in the door frame, his heart rising to his throat, unaccountably overjoyed that she had not left him alone. Mesmerised by the sight of her, he remained quiet, afraid that she might flee into the bramble and join her fellow dryads. After all, she had disappeared before, the spectre of her vanishing around a corner, a creak in the floorboard that he thought was her footsteps, or his name called out in the cadence particular to her, turning out to be nothing more than the house settling. The woman who stood on his deck in her stocking feet could very well be the same sort of illusion. Ruth sensed his presence.

"There's a goldfinch in your garden," she whispered, pointing to its perch.

The yellow bird sat on the leafless branch of a small tree. Perfectly still, eyeing the human who observed it.

"I saw it through your kitchen window," she continued."Does it come here often?"

"I wouldn't know. I don't come out to the garden much."

"That's a shame. I think they are supposed to symbolise salvation."

"Gardens?"

She half-turned to him and smiled indulgently. "Goldfinches."

"I would think that gardens symbolise the downfall of man. That's why I avoid mine."

"I think that gardens symbolise all that's beautiful with the world. I had a lovely one…"

Her voice trailed off but they both knew that she was referring to her plot of land in Cypress. The garden of her previous house in London had been sorely neglected. The state of Harry's garden was no better. In the summer, a man came and tended to the wilder aspects of the plot, pruning, keeping nature at bay, but now, between the seasons, vines and grass had run amok. Leaves scuttled along an overgrown path, hiding the secrets that lay buried beneath their feet. Leaning against the door jamb, hands in his pockets, Harry mused how he could keep her there forever.

"You're welcome to come and tend to my garden."

He wasn't sure if he had spoken the words aloud, for she did not acknowledge his invitation. He did not immediately realise the suggestive quality of the words and cleared his throat trying to dispell any insinuation. He needed to be careful. He left the support of the door jamb and stepped toward Ruth. Startled by the movement, the bird took wing and flew away. How fitting that salvation should disappear the moment he moved toward it. The spell broken, Ruth turned to him, the light falling behind her. It illuminated the lighter strands of hair around her face, hiding the creases of worry, distracting him from the drab blues and greys of her outfit. Youth and beauty shimmering in his garden. He blinked and it was gone. The sun, heavy on the horizon, descended into twilight, taking away its warmth. It made one last effort to shine, and then relented to the encroaching darkness. The call of the night was not far behind. Ruth wrapped her arms around her body and shivered.

"You should come inside," he coaxed.

She had stood for a moment in his garden, a plot of land that he could have nurtured had he felt so inclined, but there was never time. He was too busy putting out fires to grow anything. She heeded his advice and walked past him. He gave way to allow her into the kitchen and closed the door. The links of the chain clattered as Harry reattached it, the deadbolt thudding as he slid it into place. Locking the world out, keeping her in.

"I was looking for something to make." She crossed to the counter. "But your larder is emptier than mine. I did make a pot of tea."

Sweet tea, he wondered, nostalgia overtaking him. He had not received such level of care in a very long time.

She opened the door of the refrigerator and ducked behind it. "But you have no milk."

"I don't take milk, remember?"

"But I do." She popped up from behind the door. "Remember?"

She leaned her forearms on the door, swinging slightly, regarding him with a teasing half-smile. There had been a note of challenge to her voice, suggesting that she held the upper hand where memory was concerned. Normally, he would concede to her superior recall, but not in this particular area. He crossed to the fridge, the door acting as a buffer between them.

"I remember that you don't like egg salad sandwiches."

"I remember that you like ham."

"I remember that you don't like dogs."

"I remember that you don't care for cats."

"I remember-"

Harry stopped himself short, a host of memories flooding his consciousness. Of the last time she had stood in his house, the heights of promise, and the unsounded depths where his heart had fallen, the sound of her breath, the feel of her skin. He placed his hand on the door of the fridge in an effort to ground himself. His hand was near her arm, the smallest movement and he could touch her. One small act of familiarity, bringing them closer, bridging the years. He did not move. The fridge hummed. The tempo of her breaths changed, the opening of her shirt shifting with the rise and fall of her breasts. Harry's eyes dropped, lingering on the scoop of the tee-shirt that peaked out beneath the unflattering covering. She could hide behind ill-fitting clothes, but the line of cleavage, fleetingly exposed, hinted at the curves that lay beneath. His hand moved on the door, wanting to close it, strike down the barrier between them, remove everything that stood in his way. His eyes must have said as much for the pertness of her demeanour changed. She cleared her throat, her tone attempting to be casual but not entirely succeeding.

"Maybe you need something stronger than tea."

Abandoning the fridge, she walked in a wide circle around him. Harry stood for a moment, staring at the door. Alcohol was the last thing he needed in this situation. He needed to remember why she was there. She was only at his house as a gesture of goodwill. He gently closed the door and followed her into the living room.

Evidently, she had remembered where he kept his liquor. She headed straight to a small trolley near a bookcase, assessing the assembly of half-empty decanters. She picked up one, gave it a cursory look, and then placed it back down. Harry smiled ruefully.

"I remember that you don't care for scotch."

"Oh, it doesn't matter." She returned his smile. "I'm sure I'll survive."

The smile fell from her face. She looked away, subdued by a realisation. She had survived when others had not. Silence crept into the space, and Harry had no idea how to alleviate it. Perhaps the answer was to accept it. A book on the shelf caught her attention. Or at least Harry assumed it was a book until she leant down and moved it out of the way. She extracted an untouched bottle of scotch. Leave it to her to find what was hidden. Like the other exhibits in his museum, the bottle had not been spared from the dust. Ruth studied the label. She wiped a layer from the cap and slowly traced over the top with her finger.

"There's a letter on this."

He made no attempt to answer the mystery. She closed her eyes, lips parting as the remembrance hit her. The bottle was from her. She had given him four bottles of expensive scotch, the very same brand that he had once enjoyed at her house. Each bottle had been marked with a letter of her name. Harry shifted his stance, feeling as if he had been exposed; caught in the act of uncharacteristic sentimentality. He rubbed the back of his neck, compelled to offer an explanation.

"I drank the first three bottles in rather quick succession after you left. It soon became apparent that all the scotch in the world could not drown out the memory of you, so I kept the last one."

It was the one labelled with an H. The last letter of her name, the first in his. The letter for hurt, for history, for the hunger that still lingered inside of him.

Her grip tightened around the bottle. Head bowed low, her lips moved in a silent struggle, one known only to her. Harry tensed. The bottle was a door to the past, one that she could walk through if she chose. Open the bottle, he silently coaxed, and let us drink to who we were. She expelled a shaky breath and replaced the bottle on the shelf, slipping it back into history. His lips pursed, biting back words. It was the right thing to do. It had been foolish of him to think that they could ever return to the past.

"I should go and let you rest," she quietly offered.

If she left, he would do anything but rest. He would prowl about the house and curse the gods, drink himself into oblivion. Peace lay only in her presence. She stepped toward the front door and his body followed in sympathetic movement, pulled by the invisible string that inevitably drew him to her.

"Ruth," he called to her hoarsely.

Ignoring him, she moved to where her coat hung, fumbling through the folds of the material, fishing her mobile from the pocket. She tapped the screen, ready to call for a taxi. Suppressed emotion strangled Harry's voice. Pride told him to let her walk out the door, but the man who had sat alone, drinking his nights away, yearning for her return, did not listen.

"Ruth." It was barely a whisper, a final plea.

She turned the mobile over in her hand but made no attempt to place a call. Instead, she shifted the phone between her fingers, testing its weight. Hesitation. What else was she weighing? It was a small opening, one that Harry could exploit; if he were that kind of man. He walked toward her. He had nothing to lose. He stood before her, lacking the armour of his suit, the shield of his position. Equals in grief. He spoke without thinking.

"You don't have to love me, Ruth, just stay with me."

The phone stilled in her hand and she looked up at him. Eyes dark, the echo of how she had once looked at him. "Oh, Harry," she whispered. "Don't you think you deserved to be loved?"

He did not answer; his silence was his reply. She looked away.

"Sometimes I don't think I deserve it either."

Stunned that she would sentence herself to such a fate, he spoke without hesitation.

"You do," he assured her. "You do deserve it."

The force of his words, so long missing from her life, reverberated through her being, opening a crack in the prison that she had erected. The energy around her body changed, months of self-imposed denial on the verge of melting. The weight on her feet shifted, resolve pulling her toward the door, indecision bringing her to him. He prayed for a wind to move her in his direction. He stared at her, willed her to take the few steps that would bring her closer to him. She spoke softly.

"There are days when I think I will suffocate under the weight of memory." She set her phone down on the hall table. "I don't want to remember anymore."

His hand rose, palm open, beckoning her. Come and forget with me.

A small whimper left her lips, and she reached out to take his hand. A few steps and she stumbled into him. This time, he was there to stop her fall. He gathered her into his arms, holding her up with the strength of his embrace. Her face pressed into his chest, her hands on his sides, fingers gripping at the fabric of his shirt as if it were a lifeline. Her body shuddered with a ragged breath. He closed his eyes, afraid that she was crying. He had no words to comfort her. He brought his hand up to the back of her head and cradled it in his palm. They stood, gently rocking, buffeted against a current of grief and guilt. They clung to each other, the muscles of Harry's arms relaxing as he leaned against her. They drew strength from each other, the lines of support blurred. His lips graced her forehead.

"You've been very brave."

Her head moved away from his chest, turning into his neck.

"I'm tired of being brave."

As she spoke, her lips moved against his skin, igniting the dormant pulse at his throat. He stood still, debating. She was vulnerable, he was in shock. His hand dropped to the curve of her waist. She was warm and alive beneath his touch. Desire rose within him, tightening his throat. He tried to swallow it. It stayed firmly lodged in place. He pulled her closer, silently asking. Let this be more than two people clinging to each other for comfort. The bone of her hip pressed against him, her thigh glancing across his. He took the movement as an invitation. His lips moved down to her temple, to the softness of her cheek, searching. Her mouth pressed against his throat and across his jaw, warm with reply. Wandering paths of kisses, nearing each other, retreating, always destined to come together. Harry closed his eyes, ignoring the price that he was sure to pay if he were to give over to this pleasure. Fate would always exact a toll.

No. This time fate owed him.

His lips met hers and time ceased its forward pull. Their bodies stilled, momentarily surprised that they had allowed themselves to travel so far. He was not about to let her go. His mouth moved over hers, wanting more, yet holding back. She relaxed into him, her arms coming around his neck, fingers moving through his hair. It was the only incentive he needed. His hands roamed over her sides, searching for the contours that he knew lay hidden beneath the unflattering layers. His tongue slid over her mouth, searching for admittance. Open to me. She did.

Thought was drowned out by the sweetness of her mouth, blood pulsing, his heart thudding with newfound virility. He could stand like this forever. A voice told him that he did not have forever. Take what you can. He lifted her on her toes, forceful in his need, his tongue thrusting, demanding more. Tasting, taking, he may never have this feast again. His hand rose to her breast, cupping the flesh beneath her shirt. She inhaled sharply, her breath drawing a moan from him. Slow down, his mind warned, you've gone far enough. He should relish the ground that he had gained and leave the plunder for another night. He did not listen. The events of the day had proven that time was not on their side. Life was not to be squandered in waiting. He kissed her hard and pulled away. He looked at her from beneath heavy lids, rubbing his thumb over her palm, pressing into the soft flesh. A question, an invitation. The blue was missing from her eyes, obscured by giant pupils. Her gaze flitted to the stairs and them back to him. She bit her lip. He took a step back, gently tugging her hand, testing how far he could lead her. He knew the enormity of what he was proposing. All or nothing; there was no other way to live this life. Throwing off hesitation, she moved along with him. She placed her foot beside his and they walked up the stairs, her hand firmly in his grip.

At the top of the stairs, she paused and looked around.

"Nothing has changed," she observed softly.

She was right. Nothing had changed. The way he felt about her, his need to possess her. He knew why his house had remained in suspension. It had been waiting for her. He moved her back against the wall, the place where he had recently stood. He pressed into her with hungry lips, christening the spot with renewed life. His fingers bunched over the material of her skirt, hitching it up. Her hand came over his, pushing it back down. Indeed, the wall was no place for this. Refusing to relinquish his hold on her, he moved them to his bedroom.

He closed the door, shutting out the world. Here, in his room, he could stop time, peel back the years, return to that one brief point when they were together.

The significance of where they found themselves rippled through the room and they drew apart. They stood by his bed, hesitant, slightly self-conscious, more than a little nervous. Toes at the deep end, anticipating the plunge. Somehow, the attraction that he had felt for her in his earlier years seemed shallow and trifling. Separation had carved out a hollow in both of them, the depths of which he did not know. If he had to dive into the unknown, he wanted it to be with her.

The top buttons of her shirt were already undone, revealing the scoop of the tee-shirt that lay beneath. He ran his finger along the collar of the shirt, down the opening to the first button. Could he rid her of these garments once and for all, rend the fabric and dismantle every snap. He restrained himself. In this room, he was the master of time, there was no need to hurry. She stood absolutely still as he slowly undid one button and then the next, moving only when he slid the sleeves from her shoulder. He caught his breath. The tee-shirt clung to her curves, for so long hidden from his view beneath the shapeless garment. A thrill surged through him. He was an explorer, returning to an ancient land, treasures buried but not forgotten. With one layer absent, she appeared younger. If he were to remove everything, how many years would she shed? Ruth placed the flat of her hand against his chest, fingers curling over the muscle. His heartbeat under her palm. Anger, worry, grief, trapped in the fibres of the muscle melted beneath her hand. Dust fell away from his soul, releasing him from the museum. He sighed. His fingers glanced across her cheek, moving her hair away from her neck, his head dipping, lips pressing against her ear.

"I have been waiting for you."

An echoing sigh fell from her lips. She arched her neck, her hands falling to his hips, pulling him in closer. His fingers tugged at her tee-shirt pulling it up past her ribs and over her head. The bra beneath was black. He smiled. Underneath it all, she was still a spook. She belonged to him. He pressed his lips to the curve of her neck, his hand moulding over the swell of her breast, his thumb tracing her nipple. Her body welcomed the touch. She mirrored his movements, her fingers undoing his buttons. How long could they stay like this, slowly unravelling each other? His mind said years, his body said otherwise.

He lowered her gently onto the bed, taking care as he joined her. He lay beside her, lulled by her kisses, hands languidly moving over her form. A nibble, a lick, delicious teasing. It was not enough to feed his desire. Hunger, always on the edge, moved in. In the space of a heartbeat, his breath grew ragged. Heated hands pulled at her bra, her skirt. She echoed his need, tugging at his shirt, his trousers until nothing was left between them. There was no pause, only urgency, body against body. Her breasts pressed against his chest, legs tangled together, the heat between them building. The deep end was warm and welcoming. His lips moved down her skin, across the flush of her chest, his mouth taking her nipple. He wanted nothing more than to give her release. His hand slid between her thighs, fingers searching, teasing, banishing thoughts. He lost himself in her pleasure.

Her skin pricked with perspiration, her body writhed, moving with soft moans and whimpers of contentment. He lay on top of her, his hand finding hers as it rested near her head. He threaded his fingers between hers. If they continued, the act would bind them together, irrevocably. He squeezed her hand, asking once more. There was no going back. She squeezed his hand in reply. She understood.

He positioned himself between her legs, shaking slightly, overcome by the immediate. Strands of hair fell across her eyes and he brushed them out of the way. The skin on her cheek was damp whether from sadness or exertion, he did not know.

"Are you alright?"

"Yes," she whispered. Her hand rose to caress his cheek. "I came to you." She pulled him down, her lips against his ear. "Come to me."

A shiver ran the length of his body. She had seen through him. In his mind, he had been the one waiting for her, patient while she worked through her grief. It would seem that she had also been waiting for him. Even when he was lost in salacious thought, he had always held back a part of himself. Half attempted overtures, avoiding talk of the personal. On the scale of the broken, she was slightly less damaged than he. She was the only one who knew him. He would give all of himself to her.

She nudged against him, bringing him back. Though her face was bathed in darkness, he could feel her smile. Here, in his bed, she was safe. He allowed himself the indulgence of a smile. Burying his face in her neck, he held her tightly memory. She moved beneath him, urging him one. He rubbed against her, teasing. After all, he was the master of time in this room. As always, she was a woman of her own mind. Her hand found him, fingers stroking his length, coaxing him to the brink. He swallowed, his body stilling. It was so easy to give over to this woman. Legs shifting, she opened up to him. He entered her and his breath ceased. Fire licked at him, bolts of pleasure radiating through his limbs. He would never last. He rocked against her, slow and gentle, desperate to draw out the sensation. Her fingers dug into his arms. He searched for something to focus on. Events from the day rose, trying to force themselves into his conscious thought. He would not let them in. He gave himself wholly over to sensation; her skin burning against his, her heat surrounding him. He deserved this. They deserved this. They deserved to be lost in each other. He moved against her, and she rose to him. Breath feeding off of each other, bodies joined, her legs wrapped around him. The muscle in his shoulder, freed from tension, shook as he searched for release. He should change position, have her another way, extend the pleasure. She bucked beneath him, calling for him to join her. There would be other nights, there must be other nights. He thrust harder, driving away everything but her. Nothing else mattered, only his need. Faster, deeper, his dreams melding with reality. Slick, wet, heat, bodies sliding. He could not hold on. A moan broke forth, deep from within his being, her name falling from his lips. He gave into satisfaction and let go.

His heart thudded in his ears. Within him, something had shattered. A love, hidden under glass, broke free and flowed through him. It did not matter, for here, he too was safe. Within the circle of her arms, he found peace, and under the protection of his, she found sleep.