A/N: We've reached the end of another fic and this is a nice long chapter for it. I do plan to write an epilogue to tie it all together, but I'm also impatient to read Book 11 and I've resolved not to start it before I've finished this story, which means the epilogue will likely be short and written by tomorrow. Once again, thanks for all your encouraging words and support. I couldn't write without them and you. Cheers, S.C.

Ruth Evershed

"Dinner first, or shall we start with a drink?" she asks him after he's hung up his coat and she's deposited the take away containers he's brought on the kitchen counter.

"A drink sounds good, actually," he confesses.

"Wine alright? We could open a bottle now and have the rest with dinner."

"Sounds good."

So once she's got the glasses sorted and Harry's opened the red wine he's brought with him, they make their way through to the living room and take a seat on her settee, turning towards each other to gently clink their glasses together.

"Cheers," she says.

He smiles. "To us," he replies.

They each take a sip and she hums in appreciation – it's good wine.

"I spoke to Ruth Galloway today." She says the first thing that pops into her head, feeling a little nervous, if she's honest, to have him here. It's one thing to spontaneously go out for a drink, but totally different to ask him round to hers for dinner. Not that he's probably reading that much into that fact, after the way it came about – him asking her out and her agreeing but confessing she'd rather have dinner away from prying eyes, suggesting her place as a venue, offering to cook only to have him point out that she wouldn't have time on a Friday night and suggesting he bring something over.

Mind you, he's probably just as aware as she is that her bedroom is just upstairs.

Is it too soon? Does Harry think it's too soon? Or is he more of the opinion that it really isn't soon enough?

She hates this – how complicated their relationship is, how layered and confusing, and how much she over-thinks everything. With any other man, she'd have thought about it beforehand, yes, but in the end, she'd simply wait and see what she feels like doing as the evening progresses, but with Harry... She's just so invested in getting things right, in everything working out, in them making it together, long-term. Now she's decided to give them a chance, she couldn't bear it if they fell apart. She's not sure her heart would ever recover.

"Did you? I didn't realise you planned to keep in touch."

"Well, it's not everyday you meet someone you like. I've missed having friends since my return." She takes another sip of her wine, silently kicking herself for mentioning her exile, however obliquely.

His eyes soften, filling with regret, but all he says is, "I'm glad. That you're friends, that is. She seems like a decent sort. Intelligent. Kind-hearted."

"She is," she agrees, relief coursing through her. "We had a lot to talk about, oddly enough. It was a good night, despite not having solved the bombing yet. Normally, I'd be going through everything obsessively in my head, left to my own devices."

He hums in agreement. "Me too. It's why I stay on the Grid so late."

"Same here." She smiles at him, pleased to discover something more they have in common.

"Of course, I also stay to be near you." His eyes take on a honeyed hue as he watches her, heat slowly infusing his gaze and making her heart begin to race.

Gradually, he leans in, giving her every opportunity to pull back, but before he's moved much closer, movement behind him, in the kitchen, catches her eye and she spies her cat on the kitchen counter.

"Harry, no!" she protests, causing Harry to freeze as she puts down her wine, springs from the sofa, and crosses the room quickly to the kitchen. "Stop that, you naughty cat! That food's not for you!" She scoops Harold off the kitchen counter and carries him back into the living room with her, taking a seat back on the sofa with the cat still in her arms, who is doing his level best to look pathetic and innocent. "You can look as innocent as you like – I know better. You were after the Beef Lo Mein, weren't you?" She cups his head in her hand and rubs behind his ears, and immediately he turns boneless, sinking onto her lap, purring.

"Sorry about that," she tells Harry, lifting her eyes to look at him, feeling embarrassed and rather apprehensive, having ruined the moment between them. She'd wanted that kiss as much as he, but she knows that, on some level, she's still a little afraid of it also. "He almost got our dinner."

He takes a sip of his wine, his eyes sparkling with a fond kind of amusement, apparently not at all worried or bothered by the interruption. "You've named your cat Harry," he states.

She blushes, realising that the nickname had slipped out in spite of her intent to never use it in front of him. "It's Harold. He was called that when I adopted him, a few months ago, and I didn't think it fair to change it."

"I'm sure I just heard you call him Harry though." He's clearly not going to let this go and she feels herself getting flustered.

"Well, I only call him that when he's being really naughty," she counters before she can stop herself.

Harry begins to laugh and she can't help relaxing and smiling fondly at his obvious amusement. It's going to be alright, she decides. Harry seems determined to enjoy himself tonight, no matter what happens or doesn't happen between them, and she feels reassured by this realisation and able to let go of some of the tension.

"Just rolls off the tongue effortlessly when you're annoyed, doesn't it, Ruth?" he says, eyes twinkling with mischief.

"Now you mention it," she responds, extremely gratified when he laughs again. "He's a good cat though. Aren't you, Harold?" she adds, turning her attention back to the cat. "He's not often naughty. Mind you, he's getting on a bit. He probably used to be much worse if now is anything to go by. There has to be something extremely tempting on the counter for him to put in the effort to get all the way up there now, but he was probably a nightmare in his youth – up to all kinds of mischief."

She lifts her eyes back to Harry's only to find them twinkling at her with such devilry, that she can't help but clarify quickly, "I'm talking about the cat, Harry."

He laughs that wonderful, wheezy laugh he has when he finds something really funny.

"No, no," he chuckles. "If the shoe fits... That's a pretty accurate description of me."

"Really? I wouldn't have thought anything would tempt you onto the kitchen counter," she teases, delighting in this open and happy side of him that's on display this evening.

Her words, however, instantly transform his easy humour to something darker, roguish, his eyes taking on a dangerous glint as he leans towards her, gaze intense as he murmurs, "Now, that, I'll grant you, Ruth. It wasn't usually me who ended up on the kitchen counter."

She swallows, her face flushing, her whole body responding with heat as her gaze drops to his lips – so soft, so plump, so damnably kissable and wickedly tempting.

He waits, moving no closer, yet not pulling away – Damn him! – so they remain suspended in the moment – silent, lingering, hoping, wanting.

"Ruth?" he murmurs, what feels like an eternity later.

"Yes?" she replies in a daze.

"Did you talk about me?"

She frowns, puzzled. "What?"

"You and Ruth Galloway. Did you talk about me?"

Her mind is still preoccupied with his lips, craving them against her own with ever mounting impatience, yet not quite daring to be the one to close the distance between them.

"Yes."

He hums, leaning in a little more. "And what sage advice did she have to offer?"

She's still busy watching his lips, desperate to taste them. Will they be as sweet as she remembers? As soft? As tender? She wants that sweetness, that hope, without the bitterness of their impending parting. Not like last time. How can it be that she hasn't kissed them since, after all this time? How has she resisted?

"She said I should get out of my own way. That I should just let us... happen."

She's only half paying attention to their conversation. Most of her mind is waiting for his kiss, yearning for it, imagining it in ever increasing detail.

He hums again and leans closer still. "Wise woman. And are you?"

"Am I what?"

"Going to get out of your own way and let this happen?"

"This?"

"Yes."

"Kiss you, you mean?"

"All of this, Ruth," he murmurs, leaning closer still, so close that his lips are no longer in focus and she has to look up into the mesmerising hazel of his eyes. She gets lost in there for long moments – the amber flecks, the green and misty charcoal. She never knew he had such beautiful eyes. She's never lingered close enough to study them before.

"I also call him Harry when he's affectionate and gentle like this," she confesses softly, needing suddenly to explain. "He curls up on my lap when I watch the telly in the evening and I stroke him. Sometimes he purrs so loudly that I can hardly hear anything else. If I stop though, he lifts his little paws and wraps them round my wrist, pulling my hand against him and holding me there until I start stroking him again."

He chuckles, still patiently waiting. It's amazing how he does that – accepts her, loves her no matter what she says or does, or how bonkers she must seem to him.

"I love you, Harry, I tell him. And that rolls off the tongue effortlessly too," she whispers and closes the distance between them.

His lips are soft, welcoming, and when she kisses him again, then cups his cheeks, eagerly coming back for more, he exhales heavily as if he's been holding his breath in uncertain expectation. She hums in pleasure and kisses him harder, her thumbs stroking his smooth cheeks, fingers sliding into the soft wisps of hair around his ears.

He's perfect. So perfect.

She comes up for air, lifting her head a little to see his shining eyes, the soft smile gracing his lips.

"I don't purr," he says as her thumbs continue to map his cheeks and she can't help the laugh that escapes her.

"Maybe not," she responds, with more confidence than she expected, "but I'm sure there are other noises you make and I look forward to discovering every one of them."

His eyes smoulder in an instant and he's back to kissing her, his lips more insistent, his hands reaching for her, running up her sides to her shoulder blades and pulling her closer. "Harry," she gasps as his lips leave hers to trail hot kisses along her jaw to her ear, her insides melting, quivering with the rising need he's calling forth within her. Why the fuck has she resisted him for so long? How in god's name has she managed it?

"Bet your cat never made you say it quite like that," he teases, teeth nipping her earlobe.

The word cat bounces around her head, looking for something to connect with, but her mind is too distracted by what he's doing, her only thought to draw him closer, her hands slipping round his face, threading through his soft hair, pulling him and holding him against her.

It's the sound of the plastic bag rustling in the kitchen that triggers the connection and she opens her eyes, looking over his shoulder to where Harold is busy trying to get at their dinner again.

"Harold!" she protests, reluctantly pulling out of Harry's arms. "Stop being so bloody naughty!"

Harry laughs, eyes dark with desire, yet shining with a wondrous joy too. "Perhaps we should eat it. The dinner, I mean," he clarifies quickly. "We can continue this later."

She nods, unable to muster an answer at the way he's looking at her, and takes his hand when he offers it, as he stands and pulls her to her feet, feeling rather relieved that her legs manage to hold her weight and carry her through to the kitchen.

"Stop it, Harry," she tells him some time later as they sit at the table, sharing dinner, and this time she's actually addressing him and not her naughty cat.

"But he loves it," he protests, glancing at her guiltily before looking back at Harold, who's polished up the bit of beef and is gazing back up at him, an imploring kind of look in his eyes.

"And it's bad for him," she points out.

"It's meat."

"With god knows what in the sauce."

"You're eating it," he points out.

"Yes, but I'm not a cat." She's beginning to sound and feel exasperated.

In the mean time, Harold's got up and is busy rubbing himself against Harry's legs, alternating between purring and meowing pathetically, subjecting him to ever increasing doses of emotional blackmail.

"Stop it, Harold. Leave Harry alone." She glares down at her cat and then back at Harry when another piece of meat hits the floor beside him. "Harry!"

"Sorry. He just looks so..."

"You're a bloody spook! You haven't caved under interrogation and torture, and you can't resist a cat?!"

"Not just any cat," he murmurs, gaze warm and open as he looks at her.

"Oh, so it's because he's my cat now?" she challenges, not believing a word of it. She's always known he has a soft heart, her Harry. It's one of the things she's always loved most about him, and it's proving rather difficult, right now, to stand firm and stay cross with him.

He smiles and takes a sip of his wine before returning his glass to the table. "Can you blame me?"

"Yes!"

"Well, then maybe you shouldn't have named him Harry," he suggests, mischief in his eyes.

"Meow," says Harold, rubbing his head against Harry's leg again.

"Oh now, that's quite enough of that," she says, getting up and scooping up her cat, carrying him out of the kitchen to the sound of Harry's laughter.

"You're just jealous he likes me better now," he calls out after her.

With Harold safely closed in another room, they resume their meal in silence. With her cat gone, the lightness and humour of the argument has gone and all that is left is the tension.

"I'm sorry," he says eventually, reaching his hand, palm up, across the table towards her. "He's your pet and I should have respected your wishes. Forgive me?"

His eyes implore her, tugging at her heart, and though she's still feeling annoyed with him, she knows if she rejects his apology, it'll surely ruin this evening. Harry's not the type of man for whom apologies are easy and he will not be offering one again if she dismisses it now.

She sighs and puts down her fork, covering his hand with her own. "Alright," she says, watching his face relax into a smile. "But don't do it again."

"I won't," he replies, squeezing her hand in reassurance.

They resume their meal, polishing off their plates, and by the time they're done, she's feeling fond of him again and looking forward to more kisses.

"Do you remember the exact moment then?" she asks him, thinking of the drink they'd shared at the beginning of the week and the moment he'd confessed his love for her.

"When what?" He's watching her, leaning against the back of his chair, his right hand cradling his glass, his left resting on the table.

"You said it's been five years. You sounded pretty certain about the time-frame."

"The moment I fell in love with you?" His eyes soften, filling with love as he watches her nod and take another sip of her wine for courage.

"Not the exact moment. I remember the moment when I realised I was in love, but I have no idea when it started. It was so gradual, so unexpected."

"Unexpected?" she asks, curious.

"I thought I was past all that, and if I had considered the possibility it would happen, I would never have guessed it would be you."

"Not glamorous enough for you?" she jokes, taking a sip of her wine to mask how close to her deepest fears and insecurities they're steering and how afraid she is of his answer.

He shakes his head. "Too good. Too kind-hearted," he murmurs, his soft smile telling her that maybe he's read her mind and her fears. "There's no nice way to say this, but all but one of my previous relationships were with... ambitious, ruthless women, women one could describe with a certain five letter word beginning with B."

An image of Juliet Shaw fills her mind, but she pushes it aside quickly. "Who was the one who wasn't?"

"Jane. The mother of my children."

She nods, thinking about this for long moments before she returns to her original question. "So when did you realise? That you loved me?"

"When we lost Danny," he replies softly, his eyes filling with sorrow.

She nods, remembering that day, arriving at the mansion with Harry, stopping the stretcher as they brought Danny out, touching his cold face, Harry standing close beside her, her grief, the warmth of Harry's embrace as he held her while they wheeled Danny's lifeless body away. It had been the first time she'd ever found herself in his arms and it had felt so good, so safe, so warm and protected.

"I knew for sure when I thought you'd leave us, become the DG, and I wouldn't see you everyday, or at all, most likely," she confesses.

He smiles.

"I made up a story once, about being your lover and pregnant with your child," she says without thinking. "It was when you were in hospital, after Tom shot you, and I needed to warn you about the JIC closing down the Grid. I remember thinking about that later, after it was over, about what it might be like and feeling a bit surprised when I realised I wasn't averse to the idea." She looks up at his face to find his gaze intense and wanting. "So, I guess I've thought you... attractive and very... shaggable almost from the start."

He lifts his glass to his lips and downs the remaining liquid before leaning forward in his seat, forearms pressing against the edge of the table, hands clasped together. "I think I'd like to see proof of that, Ruth," he murmurs. "What say you we retire to your sofa together?"

She swallows, grabbing her courage with both hands. "Wouldn't you rather go upstairs?"

If he's surprised, he doesn't show it. In fact, he doesn't miss a beat. "Would you like me to come upstairs with you?"

"Well, I'd be a little disappointed if you came without me, Harry," she says without thinking, realising what she's said a second too late, her eyes widening in horror as she clamps both hands over her mouth.

Harry bursts out laughing. He laughs so hard, in fact, that he's soon wiping moisture from the corner of his eyes.

"Oh Ruth," he says, voice warm and joyful as he gets up and moves round the table, reaching for her hands and pulling her unceremoniously to her feet. "You are wonderful," he murmurs into her hair as he wraps her in his arms, "and I love you so very much. I'm so lost without you." He presses his lips against the side of her head, his hand threading into her hair, drawing her closer, her heart bursting with happiness to hear him say such things.

"I'm here, Harry," she replies, voice a little thick with emotion. "I want this to work as much as you do. I don't want to be without you either."

He squeezes her against him. "I won't let you go again. This is our time, Ruth," he whispers, kissing her temple, her cheek, as she turns her head towards him until their lips slot together, sealing their promise with a passionate kiss that says everything they've ever wanted to tell each other.

It doesn't matter, she realises, what happens tonight between them. It doesn't matter if they end up in her bed today or next week or next month even. What matters is the love and their willingness to give their all to make this work... and the passion they feel for each other isn't hurting either.